…

“We’ve got a difficult one this time.”

It was the message left on my cell phone from Detective Inspector that sometimes threw work my way, usually difficult cases that didn’t have the usual clues leading to a resolution.

I’d been lucky in an old case I’d been researching for a mystery novel and discovered a pattern that, in the end, led to the discovery and resolution of seven other cases spanning thirty years.

It got me into Detective Inspector Clarissa Menzies’ world of criminal investigations, which benefited my research and writing, as well as provided her with another perspective on some of her cases.

I met her at the hospital and was surprised that it was outside a psychiatric ward.

“A little background first.  The person you’re about to meet, Angela O’Brien, found herself in a relationship with a criminal, James Dyson, who was portraying himself as a businessman.  Things were fine until she discovered who he was, and then, finding herself in too deep asked us to help find a way out.  Unfortunately, the best of intentions didn’t quite go the way we planned it.”

“Don’t tell me.  You recruited her to get the information you could use against him; you couldn’t resist having someone that close and not try to use it.”

Her expression told me that was exactly what happened.  “It was not what I wanted, but to get our help, they wanted something in return.”

“Let me guess.  Once she realised who he was and how dangerous he was, she changed.  He noticed the change, and when she tried to get the information, he caught her.”

“She was lucky.  She was in the wrong place at the wrong time and didn’t get to see or take anything.  He was just overly suspicious, realising that sooner or later, she would find out.”

“I’m assuming she is in the psych ward, which means…”

“The Barnsdale warehouse fire.  He was using it as a processing centre for stolen goods inside the legitimate organisation trading in second-hand goods and claimed, out of spite, she burned the place to the ground.  We found her there, covered in incriminating evidence, unconscious from a beam that fell on her as a result of the fire.  The thing is, she has no memory of the night, how she got there, or anything.  He’s made all the running in this case, accusing her of arson and demanding we charge her.  The only problem is that there was another body in that fire, one of his associates, and we think he murdered him, and the way it’s going, if she can’t remember anything, she will end up paying for his crime.  All she can remember is the word Kaleidoscope.”

“How will my talking to her make a difference if her memory is gone?”

“You will no doubt have a completely different perspective on the whole affair, especially since I’m not going to tell you anymore.  Treat her as a suspect in one of your stories and ask questions.  All you need to know is that it was a crime scene, a man was murdered, the fire is covering that up, and she has been set up to take the fall.  It might end up being your next novel.”

“Will you be staying?”

“No.  I’ll tell her you are helping us with the case and you have some questions.”

For a victim found in a burnt-out building, she seemed remarkably untouched.  Except for bandages on her head and some red welts on her hands, there was little other evidence of her ordeal.  She was middle-aged and had the appearance of a woman who had devoted herself to the job, forsaking marriage and children.   Larissa hadn’t told me her circumstances, but I suspect she may have worked in his organisation, and he had targeted her.  Or the circumstances might be totally different.

Clarissa introduced me and then left.  I sat down, aware she was giving me the once over, her expression conveying curiosity and wariness.

“The detective says you might be able to help me remember.  Are you a doctor?”

“No, but I do have a degree in psychology, not that I ever wanted to be a psychologist.  It sometimes helps analyse people, more to put me at ease in their company than anything else.”

“You’re going to analyse me then?”

“Do you want me to?”

“If it discovers how I could have made such a stupid mistake, yes.  I mean, I’m sure I knew there was something about him, but I just ignored it until it was too late.”

“We are either willing to compromise in order to get what we want or not, and finish up becoming old and bitter.  The fact that it turns out to be the wrong one, it’s just a mistake we learn from and generally move on from.  Rarely does it end up like your current situation.  But, in your favour, the Inspector doesn’t believe you are either a murderer or an arsonist, despite the circumstantial evidence.  However, it would help if you remembered something, anything from that night. So, tell me the last thing you remember?”

“Getting ready to go out.”

“Was this when you realised, he was on to the fact you knew who he was.”

“It wouldn’t be hard, try as I might, I couldn’t get over the horror and knowing I’d been with such a terrible man.”

“Did he change in any way towards you?”

“Not that I could tell, but then he was a good actor.”

“Do you know where he was taking you?”

“No.”

“Was there a place you’d normally go?”

“Yes.  A small restaurant owned by a friend of his.  When things were good, we’d all dine together and talk about the future.  He had been talking about spending a few months in Sorrento, Italy.  He had relations there, he said.  It would have been nice.”

I’d been there once.  The place was nice, but the circumstances were not.  I’d gone there to try and patch up a relationship, but it only made matters worse. 

“It would be reasonable to assume he knew you were gathering information and was distancing you from his friends.”

“Do you remember him coming to get you?”

“No.”  Then she closed her eyes and had the look of a person trying to squeeze those memories out of their hiding place.  After a minute, and then two, with various pained expressions on her face, and then she opened her eyes and looked at me.  “He looked worried, even frightened.  I can see his face, whether it was that night or not, he was standing in the doorway.  It might have been when he found out I had been to the police, it might not.  Now that I come to think of it, he did mention once to his friend at the restaurant, that a certain other person was trying to move in on his business.”

“Which might mean that someone else burned down the warehouse and you were there by coincidence.”

“Perhaps.  We often dropped in after hours and looked at the new stock that came in that day.  I had no idea at the time that any of it was stolen goods, but a lot of it was high quality and worth a lot of money.  It seems that he was filling orders; someone would come in and ask for a particular item, and he would go find it.  Or, as I know now, steal it.  Some of the people who worked for him didn’t look like nice people, and when I asked about them, he simply said he was doing civic duty, giving ex-prisoners a second chance.  Oh, another thing I remember, he had a register where everything that passed through the warehouse was kept, including where it came from, who bought it, and how much.  I saw it once; showed it to me and then put it away in a large safe.  I knew the combination; I’d seen him open it.  All I can remember now is that I was going to steal it.  Somehow.”

“You had a plan?”

“No, it was going to be based on opportunity.  But it was dragging out, because he never let me out of his sight, not after I think he realised what I was doing.”

“Any other places he would take you?”

“Little cafes, another restaurant run by another friend, not as good as the other, and several nightclubs.  He would sit with other business owners, he called them, and the women, well in most cases girls that look like they still went to school, were shunted to one side.  We didn’t want to hear about boring commerce.  I didn’t want to listen to girls who could easily be my children, and they thought it strange he would date me, after his last girl, about 20 they said, had more class than I ever would.  When I asked where she was, they didn’t know.”

“You told Clarissa this?”

“Yes.  After seeing all of them for the first time, I had to wonder why he was dating me.  If I was cynical, I’d say it was to make me a patsy.  My guess is the guy they found dead in the ruins was the guy trying to buy him out.”

“What were the nightclub names, do you remember?”

She did, in part, but it was enough.  If that was a usual haunt, maybe they’d gone to one first.  It was a lead worth following.

When I suggested Clarissa and I go to a few nightclubs, I was not sure what her first thought was, but I hastily added that Angela may have visited one before she ended up in the warehouse inferno, she looked relieved.  Perhaps she thought I might be trying to get a date with her, an idea that had passed through my mind, but I knew that would be impossible.  Work, for the moment, was her priority, and trying to move up the ranks.

The first two had little to offer, and showing each of the bartenders Angela’s photo did not rouse any signs of recognition.  I could tell, even if they were lying.

The third and last were bigger, brighter, and full of people.  Clarissa recognised a few, from the other side of the law, as well as a few colleagues mixing with people they should not.  It was called Axiom and had continuous blinking coloured lights, like, Clarissa suddenly said, a Kaleidoscope.

“Did you know she was referring to Axiom when she mentioned the word Kaleidoscope?”  She had to yell about the white noise all around us, and the thumping music in the background.

“It was a long shot at best.  When she mentioned he had taken her to places like this, it gave me the idea.”

Clarissa brought out the photo and went, one by one, to each of the bartenders showing the photo of Angela.  Three recognised her, but it was east to see they were lying about it.  The fourth said she had been in the night of the fire, with the man, and there had nearly been a ‘set to’ as she called it, resulting in the other man being thrown out.

That was when I discovered Clarissa had had dealings with the owners before, and she picked one out, sitting over the back of the club, surrounded by young women, and went straight over to him.  He tried to distance himself from the girls, some of which looked underaged but failed.

“Phillip,” she said.  “You do not appear to have learned anything since I was last here, have you?”

He glared at her, then stood.  “What do you want, Clarissa?”

“CCTV for the night of the 3rd.  There was a scuffle and an ejection.  Show me, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“You know I can’t do that.  Privacy and all?”

“Then how about I arrest three of these girls and take them down to the station and find out how old they are?”  She pulled out her cell phone and brought up the station house number.

“You look, then you go?”

“Of course.”

He took us out the back to a small room with a lanky young man named Wally lounging in a comfortable chair, watching half a dozen screens.  He was, according to Phillip, watching for drug transactions.  He ran a clean club wherever possible.  Any perpetrators and buyers were instantly removed.

He told Wally to bring up the feed from the night in question, and the scuffle in question occurred about an hour and a half before the first report of the warehouse fire.  Dyson was there, pushing and shoving back, he didn’t start the altercation, and then the bouncers moved in.  Two takeaways from the footage, the other man was someone both of us had seen before, and Angela appeared to be very drunk.  Only it looked more like she had been drugged. 

Ten minutes later, both were caught on CCTV, leaving by the front entrance, Dyson supporting her as if she had too much to drink.  Clarissa got copies of the footage for both events.  Then we left.

Clarissa had what she believed was enough probable cause to bring Dyson in for an interview.

I was allowed to observe from a room where I could see him but he couldn’t see me, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know others were nearby.  He loomed over at the window and it was an eerie feeling.

He was in a jovial mood because he obviously thought that he had left no evidence behind.  He hadn’t mentioned an altercation at Axiom with the business rival, now identified as Roger Davies’ and the dead man in the burnt warehouse.

Perhaps Dyson was hoping the body may have been incinerated, but it wasn’t.

Clarissa and her partner came in a sat down.  She had a small file with her, perhaps deceptively so to make him think their evidence if any wasn’t enough to worry about.

His lawyer sat silently, like a man who didn’t want to be there.  Did he know the truth?

“Mr Dyson, let’s go through your movements on the might of the warehouse fire.”

She glared at him, or perhaps it was a half grimace.  He was, she had said privately to me, an obnoxious little toad.

“‘We’ve done this.  If we’re going to rehash what non-evidence you’ve got…” he stood. “Then we’ve got better things to do.”

She shrugged.

“Then try telling us the truth, Mr Dyson.  I rarely asked questions in a third interview when I don’t already know the answer, so I suggest you sit down.”

“You’ve got nothing…”

She pushed a button on her phone and the screen directly in his line of sight started with the altercation at Axiom.

“Sit down Mr Dyson, and while you’re doing so try not to conjure up any more lies.”

So I had an argument with some loudmouth fool.”

“The loud-mouthed foil that ended up in your warehouse, very dead, Mr Dyson.”

“Angela’s Co-conspirator perhaps I don’t know maybe they conspired together to burn the place down.”

His eyes didn’t leave the screen though because I was sure he knew what was coming next.

“About that Mr Dyson.  How did the woman you see, quite obviously the so-called arsonist, completely out of it, and remain so even after she left the club?  Not someone who couldn’t strike a match let alone perform the perfect set-up that would need the skills of a seasoned well-trained arsonist.  Oh, and something else you need to consider.  She was drug tested when she was brought in.  A complete panel.  The doctor in the hospital she was taken was overzealous in doing her job.  Didn’t know until an hour ago.  Rohypnol Mr Dyson.  Now, let’s forget the histrionics, and blame others for your problem. From the top, let’s go through your movements on the day of the fire.”

…

© Charles Heath  2023

…

“We’ve got a difficult one this time.”

It was the message left on my cell phone from Detective Inspector that sometimes threw work my way, usually difficult cases that didn’t have the usual clues leading to a resolution.

I’d been lucky in an old case I’d been researching for a mystery novel and discovered a pattern that, in the end, led to the discovery and resolution of seven other cases spanning thirty years.

It got me into Detective Inspector Clarissa Menzies’ world of criminal investigations, which benefited my research and writing, as well as provided her with another perspective on some of her cases.

I met her at the hospital and was surprised that it was outside a psychiatric ward.

“A little background first.  The person you’re about to meet, Angela O’Brien, found herself in a relationship with a criminal, James Dyson, who was portraying himself as a businessman.  Things were fine until she discovered who he was, and then, finding herself in too deep asked us to help find a way out.  Unfortunately, the best of intentions didn’t quite go the way we planned it.”

“Don’t tell me.  You recruited her to get the information you could use against him; you couldn’t resist having someone that close and not try to use it.”

Her expression told me that was exactly what happened.  “It was not what I wanted, but to get our help, they wanted something in return.”

“Let me guess.  Once she realised who he was and how dangerous he was, she changed.  He noticed the change, and when she tried to get the information, he caught her.”

“She was lucky.  She was in the wrong place at the wrong time and didn’t get to see or take anything.  He was just overly suspicious, realising that sooner or later, she would find out.”

“I’m assuming she is in the psych ward, which means…”

“The Barnsdale warehouse fire.  He was using it as a processing centre for stolen goods inside the legitimate organisation trading in second-hand goods and claimed, out of spite, she burned the place to the ground.  We found her there, covered in incriminating evidence, unconscious from a beam that fell on her as a result of the fire.  The thing is, she has no memory of the night, how she got there, or anything.  He’s made all the running in this case, accusing her of arson and demanding we charge her.  The only problem is that there was another body in that fire, one of his associates, and we think he murdered him, and the way it’s going, if she can’t remember anything, she will end up paying for his crime.  All she can remember is the word Kaleidoscope.”

“How will my talking to her make a difference if her memory is gone?”

“You will no doubt have a completely different perspective on the whole affair, especially since I’m not going to tell you anymore.  Treat her as a suspect in one of your stories and ask questions.  All you need to know is that it was a crime scene, a man was murdered, the fire is covering that up, and she has been set up to take the fall.  It might end up being your next novel.”

“Will you be staying?”

“No.  I’ll tell her you are helping us with the case and you have some questions.”

For a victim found in a burnt-out building, she seemed remarkably untouched.  Except for bandages on her head and some red welts on her hands, there was little other evidence of her ordeal.  She was middle-aged and had the appearance of a woman who had devoted herself to the job, forsaking marriage and children.   Larissa hadn’t told me her circumstances, but I suspect she may have worked in his organisation, and he had targeted her.  Or the circumstances might be totally different.

Clarissa introduced me and then left.  I sat down, aware she was giving me the once over, her expression conveying curiosity and wariness.

“The detective says you might be able to help me remember.  Are you a doctor?”

“No, but I do have a degree in psychology, not that I ever wanted to be a psychologist.  It sometimes helps analyse people, more to put me at ease in their company than anything else.”

“You’re going to analyse me then?”

“Do you want me to?”

“If it discovers how I could have made such a stupid mistake, yes.  I mean, I’m sure I knew there was something about him, but I just ignored it until it was too late.”

“We are either willing to compromise in order to get what we want or not, and finish up becoming old and bitter.  The fact that it turns out to be the wrong one, it’s just a mistake we learn from and generally move on from.  Rarely does it end up like your current situation.  But, in your favour, the Inspector doesn’t believe you are either a murderer or an arsonist, despite the circumstantial evidence.  However, it would help if you remembered something, anything from that night. So, tell me the last thing you remember?”

“Getting ready to go out.”

“Was this when you realised, he was on to the fact you knew who he was.”

“It wouldn’t be hard, try as I might, I couldn’t get over the horror and knowing I’d been with such a terrible man.”

“Did he change in any way towards you?”

“Not that I could tell, but then he was a good actor.”

“Do you know where he was taking you?”

“No.”

“Was there a place you’d normally go?”

“Yes.  A small restaurant owned by a friend of his.  When things were good, we’d all dine together and talk about the future.  He had been talking about spending a few months in Sorrento, Italy.  He had relations there, he said.  It would have been nice.”

I’d been there once.  The place was nice, but the circumstances were not.  I’d gone there to try and patch up a relationship, but it only made matters worse. 

“It would be reasonable to assume he knew you were gathering information and was distancing you from his friends.”

“Do you remember him coming to get you?”

“No.”  Then she closed her eyes and had the look of a person trying to squeeze those memories out of their hiding place.  After a minute, and then two, with various pained expressions on her face, and then she opened her eyes and looked at me.  “He looked worried, even frightened.  I can see his face, whether it was that night or not, he was standing in the doorway.  It might have been when he found out I had been to the police, it might not.  Now that I come to think of it, he did mention once to his friend at the restaurant, that a certain other person was trying to move in on his business.”

“Which might mean that someone else burned down the warehouse and you were there by coincidence.”

“Perhaps.  We often dropped in after hours and looked at the new stock that came in that day.  I had no idea at the time that any of it was stolen goods, but a lot of it was high quality and worth a lot of money.  It seems that he was filling orders; someone would come in and ask for a particular item, and he would go find it.  Or, as I know now, steal it.  Some of the people who worked for him didn’t look like nice people, and when I asked about them, he simply said he was doing civic duty, giving ex-prisoners a second chance.  Oh, another thing I remember, he had a register where everything that passed through the warehouse was kept, including where it came from, who bought it, and how much.  I saw it once; showed it to me and then put it away in a large safe.  I knew the combination; I’d seen him open it.  All I can remember now is that I was going to steal it.  Somehow.”

“You had a plan?”

“No, it was going to be based on opportunity.  But it was dragging out, because he never let me out of his sight, not after I think he realised what I was doing.”

“Any other places he would take you?”

“Little cafes, another restaurant run by another friend, not as good as the other, and several nightclubs.  He would sit with other business owners, he called them, and the women, well in most cases girls that look like they still went to school, were shunted to one side.  We didn’t want to hear about boring commerce.  I didn’t want to listen to girls who could easily be my children, and they thought it strange he would date me, after his last girl, about 20 they said, had more class than I ever would.  When I asked where she was, they didn’t know.”

“You told Clarissa this?”

“Yes.  After seeing all of them for the first time, I had to wonder why he was dating me.  If I was cynical, I’d say it was to make me a patsy.  My guess is the guy they found dead in the ruins was the guy trying to buy him out.”

“What were the nightclub names, do you remember?”

She did, in part, but it was enough.  If that was a usual haunt, maybe they’d gone to one first.  It was a lead worth following.

When I suggested Clarissa and I go to a few nightclubs, I was not sure what her first thought was, but I hastily added that Angela may have visited one before she ended up in the warehouse inferno, she looked relieved.  Perhaps she thought I might be trying to get a date with her, an idea that had passed through my mind, but I knew that would be impossible.  Work, for the moment, was her priority, and trying to move up the ranks.

The first two had little to offer, and showing each of the bartenders Angela’s photo did not rouse any signs of recognition.  I could tell, even if they were lying.

The third and last were bigger, brighter, and full of people.  Clarissa recognised a few, from the other side of the law, as well as a few colleagues mixing with people they should not.  It was called Axiom and had continuous blinking coloured lights, like, Clarissa suddenly said, a Kaleidoscope.

“Did you know she was referring to Axiom when she mentioned the word Kaleidoscope?”  She had to yell about the white noise all around us, and the thumping music in the background.

“It was a long shot at best.  When she mentioned he had taken her to places like this, it gave me the idea.”

Clarissa brought out the photo and went, one by one, to each of the bartenders showing the photo of Angela.  Three recognised her, but it was east to see they were lying about it.  The fourth said she had been in the night of the fire, with the man, and there had nearly been a ‘set to’ as she called it, resulting in the other man being thrown out.

That was when I discovered Clarissa had had dealings with the owners before, and she picked one out, sitting over the back of the club, surrounded by young women, and went straight over to him.  He tried to distance himself from the girls, some of which looked underaged but failed.

“Phillip,” she said.  “You do not appear to have learned anything since I was last here, have you?”

He glared at her, then stood.  “What do you want, Clarissa?”

“CCTV for the night of the 3rd.  There was a scuffle and an ejection.  Show me, and I’ll get out of your hair.”

“You know I can’t do that.  Privacy and all?”

“Then how about I arrest three of these girls and take them down to the station and find out how old they are?”  She pulled out her cell phone and brought up the station house number.

“You look, then you go?”

“Of course.”

He took us out the back to a small room with a lanky young man named Wally lounging in a comfortable chair, watching half a dozen screens.  He was, according to Phillip, watching for drug transactions.  He ran a clean club wherever possible.  Any perpetrators and buyers were instantly removed.

He told Wally to bring up the feed from the night in question, and the scuffle in question occurred about an hour and a half before the first report of the warehouse fire.  Dyson was there, pushing and shoving back, he didn’t start the altercation, and then the bouncers moved in.  Two takeaways from the footage, the other man was someone both of us had seen before, and Angela appeared to be very drunk.  Only it looked more like she had been drugged. 

Ten minutes later, both were caught on CCTV, leaving by the front entrance, Dyson supporting her as if she had too much to drink.  Clarissa got copies of the footage for both events.  Then we left.

Clarissa had what she believed was enough probable cause to bring Dyson in for an interview.

I was allowed to observe from a room where I could see him but he couldn’t see me, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know others were nearby.  He loomed over at the window and it was an eerie feeling.

He was in a jovial mood because he obviously thought that he had left no evidence behind.  He hadn’t mentioned an altercation at Axiom with the business rival, now identified as Roger Davies’ and the dead man in the burnt warehouse.

Perhaps Dyson was hoping the body may have been incinerated, but it wasn’t.

Clarissa and her partner came in a sat down.  She had a small file with her, perhaps deceptively so to make him think their evidence if any wasn’t enough to worry about.

His lawyer sat silently, like a man who didn’t want to be there.  Did he know the truth?

“Mr Dyson, let’s go through your movements on the might of the warehouse fire.”

She glared at him, or perhaps it was a half grimace.  He was, she had said privately to me, an obnoxious little toad.

“‘We’ve done this.  If we’re going to rehash what non-evidence you’ve got…” he stood. “Then we’ve got better things to do.”

She shrugged.

“Then try telling us the truth, Mr Dyson.  I rarely asked questions in a third interview when I don’t already know the answer, so I suggest you sit down.”

“You’ve got nothing…”

She pushed a button on her phone and the screen directly in his line of sight started with the altercation at Axiom.

“Sit down Mr Dyson, and while you’re doing so try not to conjure up any more lies.”

So I had an argument with some loudmouth fool.”

“The loud-mouthed foil that ended up in your warehouse, very dead, Mr Dyson.”

“Angela’s Co-conspirator perhaps I don’t know maybe they conspired together to burn the place down.”

His eyes didn’t leave the screen though because I was sure he knew what was coming next.

“About that Mr Dyson.  How did the woman you see, quite obviously the so-called arsonist, completely out of it, and remain so even after she left the club?  Not someone who couldn’t strike a match let alone perform the perfect set-up that would need the skills of a seasoned well-trained arsonist.  Oh, and something else you need to consider.  She was drug tested when she was brought in.  A complete panel.  The doctor in the hospital she was taken was overzealous in doing her job.  Didn’t know until an hour ago.  Rohypnol Mr Dyson.  Now, let’s forget the histrionics, and blame others for your problem. From the top, let’s go through your movements on the day of the fire.”

…

© Charles Heath  2023

…

I remember the last conversation I had with my father the day he died.

It had taken three months of my life, giving up everything to make sure his last days were bearable, all with the expectation that it would be a thankless task he would not appreciate.  Three months of dismissive retorts, insults, insufferable behaviour, cryptic comments, and sometimes, in less lucid moments, ramblings about places he’d been, and discoveries made.

Neither of my brothers wanted anything to do with him, other than to wait for the selfish bastard to die and leave them their sufferance money, their expectation of an incalculable inheritance, and it was left to me, the youngest son, and in their eyes the one he cared about the most to take responsibility.

I didn’t have the heart, nor was I given the opportunity, to tell them I was not the golden boy they thought I was.  Or the fact there was no incalculable inheritance.

But there was that conversation, one I never expected to have.

I’d left the room for a break, heading to the hospital cafeteria for coffee and a croissant.  Amelia, one of two dedicated nurses looking after my father, was there, having a coffee before she started her shift.  We had become friends of a sort, each other’s go-to person when my father unravelled on us.

Yesterday’s revelations were about his will, and which one, if there was one, was current.  His mind changed weekly, including who was in and who was out, which made it especially interesting because he sometimes didn’t remember any of all of us.  Or the fact his wife, our mother, had died twenty years before after being dragged along on one of his archaeological adventures.

Yesterday, I was getting nothing, his rant about the child, not knowing I was in the room with him.  He simply didn’t recognise me.  Everything, he said, was going to Elroy, the eldest brother, who, apparently, was in the room with us.

The brain tumour was affecting him more each passing day, and symptoms and behaviour the doctors had told me from the outset, would demonstrate indescribable and at times confronting behaviour.  I think, in that three months, I’d seen it all.

“Another day, not another million dollars, eh Steven?”  She smiled.  She’d caught the last of the spray he gave me.  She was amused by my eligibility as a so-called wealthy bachelor, which changed from week to week.  This week, it was zero wealth, no eligibility.

“I was hoping to propose, but once again, I can’t afford the ring, the wedding, or the honeymoon.”

“You know what I expect, a soda can ring pull, my parent’s backyard, and a B and B in Yonkers.  If I’m lucky.  My parents might charge rent for using their backyard.”

We joked about it, but I’d thought more than once in the last few weeks to ask her on a date, but after telling me about her last breakup and the horrid man, she’d sworn off dating for life.  She was the only light in days of darkness.

“Everything comes to he or she who waits.  I’m sure the right one is out there somewhere.”

“We can only hope.  He had a quiet night, I’m told, and the end is near.  Twice the night nurse had thought he’d died.  Maybe he’s finally done.”

I could only hope.  “Got anything lined up for the weekend?”

She grimaced.  I knew that look.  Duty and obligation led to an inquisition.

“Going home to visit mum and dad, and see the perfect sisters with their perfect families, each with their perfect husband with perfect jobs, and why I’m not married, have no children in a dead-end job.  I sometimes wonder if I should ask you to pretend to be my perfect husband just to get them off my back.  What do you think?”

It was an idea that sent a shiver through me when it shouldn’t.

“I’m not perfect.”

“Nobody is, Steven, except in my family.  Tell you what, the more I think about it….”  Then she shook her head.  “I think I’m going mad.  I’ll see you later.”  She rushed off, and I was not sure if she was late starting or embarrassed by thinking out loud.

It was an idea.  Maybe I’d mention it later.

I opened the curtains covering the windows and looked at the frail man either asleep or feigning sleep.  It was hard to tell.  He was, after the ravages of age and illness, now only a fraction of what he used to be, a big, strong force of nature. 

I arranged the array of newspapers I’d brought with me, just in case he wanted me to read stories from them, or just one.  I had several Dickens novels, which I’d read to him at night.  He liked the classics and Dickens in particular.  I had a bottle of scotch, which we had a drink of sometimes.  Other times, I was not allowed because he thought I was too young.  It was amusing.

Every morning was a waiting game, where I would wait until he spoke to me unless one of the medical staff interrupted this charade.  It seemed to amuse him, and because he was dying, I played along.

Reading the newspaper while waiting, I found a story on page 6 of the local rag, my father’s description of it because he had never anything nice to say about it, or the reporting because the editor was an arch enemy if his, about his impending demise, and how he had been the counties most distinguished archaeologist and celebrity.  It refrained from mentioning he could be and often was abrasive.

“Alfred Biggins in serious condition.” Followed by a catchy subtitled, “Not expected to live.”

It was rather a belatedly written story written by a friend, of sorts; “stodgy”, so named because his journalistic talent was simply writing the facts.  It was a mishmash of everything he’d got from me in a bar the previous Friday in what he thought was a well-disguised interrogation. It was not.  Having every intention of trying to keep the wolves from the door, I managed to head off an assassination piece; those would come from various sources after his death.

“Is that you, Steven?”  My father was awake, and I braced myself.

I put the paper down and looked over to see him sitting up.  If I was to guess, he didn’t look ill or half mad at all, just his usual self.  “It is me.  What can I get you?”

“Nothing I can’t get for myself.  What are you doing here?  What am I doing here?”

OK.  Something was very wrong here.  This person in the bed was not my father.  “You have a brain tumour and you’ve been in a very bad way.  In fact, the night nurse had thought you’d died.  Twice.”

“Died?  Brain tumour?  There’s nothing wrong with me.  I feel fine.”

Then I remembered what the doctor had said a month or so ago when we went through a similar phase.  This moment of clarity wouldn’t last.

“Dad, believe me, you are unwell, and this is just a temporary remission.  The doctor will be here soon and will explain it.”

“Then if I’m ill as you say, where are your brothers?”

“They wanted nothing to do with you once you were put in here.  They delegated me to keep you company.  I’m sure you don’t remember any of this, but it’s been three months now, and it’s getting worse.”

He shook his head and went quiet.  It was as if he was taking in the enormity of it, or just that he didn’t believe it could happen to him.  A few minutes passed, and I wondered if he had slipped back into the fog.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at me.  “Yes.  Some of it I remember, firstly going down like a sack of potatoes in Cairo, waking up in some damn hospital with a witch doctor trying to peer into my soul.  Said I had a tumour and it needed to be seen to, said I had six months, at best to live. Of course, I laughed at him, came home, and then the last thing I know was falling over in the study at home.”

“It’s where I found you.  It was a day before I came home.  Scared the living hell out of me.”

“How long since that day?”1

“Three months almost to the day.”

“Plus the three before that, that’s the six months.  I’m on borrowed time.  There’s a journal in the study.  I don’t remember where I put it, but it’s in a safe place.  If I remember before I die, I’ll tell you, but I think that’s a long shot at best.  The will is in a copy of the 1933 Guide to Touring Egypt.  Basically the money goes to the other two, and the house goes to you.  They don’t need a house and they’d only sell it if I left it to them.  The money with more than compensate them.  I should change it and leave the money to a lost dog’s home, but it’s too late.  I’m sorry for a lot of things Steven, but what’s in the journal will make up for everything.  Two things, don’t tell anyone about it, or what’s in there.  Ever.  The other, watch out for Professor Moriarty.  Yes, I know it sounds stupid because he’s a foe of Sherlock Holmes, but I’m not joking.  The man is dangerous. and he’s after the same thing you are.  Now, be a good boy and get me some cold water.”

I looked at him, trying to fathom if he was having me on.  It wouldn’t surprise me.  Whether or not this was one of those lucid moments, or he was just a very good actor, I couldn’t tell.  But Professor Moriarty?  Please.  That was where I drew the line.  I took the jug and headed to the cold water dispenser.

Amelia passed as I was filling the jug.  “How is he today?”

“The weirdest thing.  Until he mentioned Professor Moriarty, I thought he’d woken and was lucid again.  Certainly, the conversation was better than anything we’d had before, even before being admitted to the hospital.”

“Maybe some of it was, and his mind just wandered.  Ask him again when you see him.  I’ll be there soon.”

I’d just picked up the jug when I heard a scream, and it sounded like it came from my father’s room.  I left the jug and ran.  I arrived at the same time as the doctor and two nurses, to see him trying to get out of bed, yelling, “He’s trying to get me, he’s trying to get me,  Help.”  He was literally fighting the doctor and nurse off.

Suddenly he went limp in their arms, and they managed to get him back on the bed.  With one look at him, the doctor immediately checked for a pulse.  A minute later, with a shake of the head, he looked at the clock on the wall.  “Time of death, 8:43 am.”  He turned to me.  “Your father just passed.  I’m sorry for your loss.  We’ll give you a moment alone with him.”

It grieved me in the sense that I had not been with him in his last moments alive.  But, it also surprised me that I didn’t feel more now that he was dead.  All those years of making us children a second priority perhaps had made us more immune from his loss than it should.  I sat for a minute and held his hand, quite cold, but not because of death.  His hands had always been cold.

It was then I noticed the piece of paper under the pillow, just showing.  I pulled it out.  He must have made a note in those moments of clarity.

I pulled it out and read it.

“If I am dead, then leave.  Now.  Don’t wait around because it will only invite trouble.  Go home.  Look for the journal.  Trust no one.”

I might have ignored that note had it not for the sound of raised voices coming from the nurse’s station, one being a man who was demanding to see my father.

A last look at him, a memory of a man who no longer looked like my father, and I left.  Just about to leave by the side exit I could hear the doctor saying, “You cannot be here, Professor Moriarty, and if you persist, I will call the police.”

…

© Charles Heath 2023

…

I remember the last conversation I had with my father the day he died.

It had taken three months of my life, giving up everything to make sure his last days were bearable, all with the expectation that it would be a thankless task he would not appreciate.  Three months of dismissive retorts, insults, insufferable behaviour, cryptic comments, and sometimes, in less lucid moments, ramblings about places he’d been, and discoveries made.

Neither of my brothers wanted anything to do with him, other than to wait for the selfish bastard to die and leave them their sufferance money, their expectation of an incalculable inheritance, and it was left to me, the youngest son, and in their eyes the one he cared about the most to take responsibility.

I didn’t have the heart, nor was I given the opportunity, to tell them I was not the golden boy they thought I was.  Or the fact there was no incalculable inheritance.

But there was that conversation, one I never expected to have.

I’d left the room for a break, heading to the hospital cafeteria for coffee and a croissant.  Amelia, one of two dedicated nurses looking after my father, was there, having a coffee before she started her shift.  We had become friends of a sort, each other’s go-to person when my father unravelled on us.

Yesterday’s revelations were about his will, and which one, if there was one, was current.  His mind changed weekly, including who was in and who was out, which made it especially interesting because he sometimes didn’t remember any of all of us.  Or the fact his wife, our mother, had died twenty years before after being dragged along on one of his archaeological adventures.

Yesterday, I was getting nothing, his rant about the child, not knowing I was in the room with him.  He simply didn’t recognise me.  Everything, he said, was going to Elroy, the eldest brother, who, apparently, was in the room with us.

The brain tumour was affecting him more each passing day, and symptoms and behaviour the doctors had told me from the outset, would demonstrate indescribable and at times confronting behaviour.  I think, in that three months, I’d seen it all.

“Another day, not another million dollars, eh Steven?”  She smiled.  She’d caught the last of the spray he gave me.  She was amused by my eligibility as a so-called wealthy bachelor, which changed from week to week.  This week, it was zero wealth, no eligibility.

“I was hoping to propose, but once again, I can’t afford the ring, the wedding, or the honeymoon.”

“You know what I expect, a soda can ring pull, my parent’s backyard, and a B and B in Yonkers.  If I’m lucky.  My parents might charge rent for using their backyard.”

We joked about it, but I’d thought more than once in the last few weeks to ask her on a date, but after telling me about her last breakup and the horrid man, she’d sworn off dating for life.  She was the only light in days of darkness.

“Everything comes to he or she who waits.  I’m sure the right one is out there somewhere.”

“We can only hope.  He had a quiet night, I’m told, and the end is near.  Twice the night nurse had thought he’d died.  Maybe he’s finally done.”

I could only hope.  “Got anything lined up for the weekend?”

She grimaced.  I knew that look.  Duty and obligation led to an inquisition.

“Going home to visit mum and dad, and see the perfect sisters with their perfect families, each with their perfect husband with perfect jobs, and why I’m not married, have no children in a dead-end job.  I sometimes wonder if I should ask you to pretend to be my perfect husband just to get them off my back.  What do you think?”

It was an idea that sent a shiver through me when it shouldn’t.

“I’m not perfect.”

“Nobody is, Steven, except in my family.  Tell you what, the more I think about it….”  Then she shook her head.  “I think I’m going mad.  I’ll see you later.”  She rushed off, and I was not sure if she was late starting or embarrassed by thinking out loud.

It was an idea.  Maybe I’d mention it later.

I opened the curtains covering the windows and looked at the frail man either asleep or feigning sleep.  It was hard to tell.  He was, after the ravages of age and illness, now only a fraction of what he used to be, a big, strong force of nature. 

I arranged the array of newspapers I’d brought with me, just in case he wanted me to read stories from them, or just one.  I had several Dickens novels, which I’d read to him at night.  He liked the classics and Dickens in particular.  I had a bottle of scotch, which we had a drink of sometimes.  Other times, I was not allowed because he thought I was too young.  It was amusing.

Every morning was a waiting game, where I would wait until he spoke to me unless one of the medical staff interrupted this charade.  It seemed to amuse him, and because he was dying, I played along.

Reading the newspaper while waiting, I found a story on page 6 of the local rag, my father’s description of it because he had never anything nice to say about it, or the reporting because the editor was an arch enemy if his, about his impending demise, and how he had been the counties most distinguished archaeologist and celebrity.  It refrained from mentioning he could be and often was abrasive.

“Alfred Biggins in serious condition.” Followed by a catchy subtitled, “Not expected to live.”

It was rather a belatedly written story written by a friend, of sorts; “stodgy”, so named because his journalistic talent was simply writing the facts.  It was a mishmash of everything he’d got from me in a bar the previous Friday in what he thought was a well-disguised interrogation. It was not.  Having every intention of trying to keep the wolves from the door, I managed to head off an assassination piece; those would come from various sources after his death.

“Is that you, Steven?”  My father was awake, and I braced myself.

I put the paper down and looked over to see him sitting up.  If I was to guess, he didn’t look ill or half mad at all, just his usual self.  “It is me.  What can I get you?”

“Nothing I can’t get for myself.  What are you doing here?  What am I doing here?”

OK.  Something was very wrong here.  This person in the bed was not my father.  “You have a brain tumour and you’ve been in a very bad way.  In fact, the night nurse had thought you’d died.  Twice.”

“Died?  Brain tumour?  There’s nothing wrong with me.  I feel fine.”

Then I remembered what the doctor had said a month or so ago when we went through a similar phase.  This moment of clarity wouldn’t last.

“Dad, believe me, you are unwell, and this is just a temporary remission.  The doctor will be here soon and will explain it.”

“Then if I’m ill as you say, where are your brothers?”

“They wanted nothing to do with you once you were put in here.  They delegated me to keep you company.  I’m sure you don’t remember any of this, but it’s been three months now, and it’s getting worse.”

He shook his head and went quiet.  It was as if he was taking in the enormity of it, or just that he didn’t believe it could happen to him.  A few minutes passed, and I wondered if he had slipped back into the fog.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at me.  “Yes.  Some of it I remember, firstly going down like a sack of potatoes in Cairo, waking up in some damn hospital with a witch doctor trying to peer into my soul.  Said I had a tumour and it needed to be seen to, said I had six months, at best to live. Of course, I laughed at him, came home, and then the last thing I know was falling over in the study at home.”

“It’s where I found you.  It was a day before I came home.  Scared the living hell out of me.”

“How long since that day?”1

“Three months almost to the day.”

“Plus the three before that, that’s the six months.  I’m on borrowed time.  There’s a journal in the study.  I don’t remember where I put it, but it’s in a safe place.  If I remember before I die, I’ll tell you, but I think that’s a long shot at best.  The will is in a copy of the 1933 Guide to Touring Egypt.  Basically the money goes to the other two, and the house goes to you.  They don’t need a house and they’d only sell it if I left it to them.  The money with more than compensate them.  I should change it and leave the money to a lost dog’s home, but it’s too late.  I’m sorry for a lot of things Steven, but what’s in the journal will make up for everything.  Two things, don’t tell anyone about it, or what’s in there.  Ever.  The other, watch out for Professor Moriarty.  Yes, I know it sounds stupid because he’s a foe of Sherlock Holmes, but I’m not joking.  The man is dangerous. and he’s after the same thing you are.  Now, be a good boy and get me some cold water.”

I looked at him, trying to fathom if he was having me on.  It wouldn’t surprise me.  Whether or not this was one of those lucid moments, or he was just a very good actor, I couldn’t tell.  But Professor Moriarty?  Please.  That was where I drew the line.  I took the jug and headed to the cold water dispenser.

Amelia passed as I was filling the jug.  “How is he today?”

“The weirdest thing.  Until he mentioned Professor Moriarty, I thought he’d woken and was lucid again.  Certainly, the conversation was better than anything we’d had before, even before being admitted to the hospital.”

“Maybe some of it was, and his mind just wandered.  Ask him again when you see him.  I’ll be there soon.”

I’d just picked up the jug when I heard a scream, and it sounded like it came from my father’s room.  I left the jug and ran.  I arrived at the same time as the doctor and two nurses, to see him trying to get out of bed, yelling, “He’s trying to get me, he’s trying to get me,  Help.”  He was literally fighting the doctor and nurse off.

Suddenly he went limp in their arms, and they managed to get him back on the bed.  With one look at him, the doctor immediately checked for a pulse.  A minute later, with a shake of the head, he looked at the clock on the wall.  “Time of death, 8:43 am.”  He turned to me.  “Your father just passed.  I’m sorry for your loss.  We’ll give you a moment alone with him.”

It grieved me in the sense that I had not been with him in his last moments alive.  But, it also surprised me that I didn’t feel more now that he was dead.  All those years of making us children a second priority perhaps had made us more immune from his loss than it should.  I sat for a minute and held his hand, quite cold, but not because of death.  His hands had always been cold.

It was then I noticed the piece of paper under the pillow, just showing.  I pulled it out.  He must have made a note in those moments of clarity.

I pulled it out and read it.

“If I am dead, then leave.  Now.  Don’t wait around because it will only invite trouble.  Go home.  Look for the journal.  Trust no one.”

I might have ignored that note had it not for the sound of raised voices coming from the nurse’s station, one being a man who was demanding to see my father.

A last look at him, a memory of a man who no longer looked like my father, and I left.  Just about to leave by the side exit I could hear the doctor saying, “You cannot be here, Professor Moriarty, and if you persist, I will call the police.”

…

© Charles Heath 2023

…

I was told once that I lacked imagination.

It cost me a relationship and my dream job, and it still hurt.

The thing is, in a situation where, if I could have thought outside the box, it would have saved lives, particularly Sharon’s, the woman I was supposed to marry three days after the event that ended her life.

And, it was my fault.  I accepted responsibility, lost my job, and rightly or wrongly, spent five years of my life in jail, perhaps not the worst thing to happen to me.

What was worse was the knowledge I could have prevented it, and saved her life and five others.  That was harder, almost impossible to live with.  I had never imagined what it would be like without her, because I never imagined I’d fail.

Now I could not imagine what it would be like on the outside, back in the world again, with nothing.

“So Ken, ready to take that giant step for mankind?”

Louie, one of several prison guards I’d got to know over the time I’d been incarcerated, had already delivered my stuff after breakfast after I’d said my goodbyes, and had come back to take on that last journey to the front gate

“You do realise that a high percentage of inmates re-offend within a month or two.  It’s a hard world out there, full of hate and distrust.  Easier just to re-offend and come back to safety.”

“I don’t intend to come back.”  There were 9 other reasons why I didn’t want to return, and one big one. Lodge.  He only had one name, and he didn’t need another.  Survival in those first few months had been my primary concern, and he tried to make it his.

I’d been expecting a visit at breakfast, to let me know it was not safe on the outside, and that I would get my just desserts.  People like Lodge did not like to lose, and he had simmered for years.  Luckily he would never see the outside again.

He didn’t arrive, perhaps because they locked him up but he’d made the threat before. 

“They all say that, but we’ll see.  Let’s go “

Some say the air is different on the outside, but it wasn’t.  The jail complex was in the middle of a large open space, miles from anywhere.  It was there so even if someone escaped they would have to traverse at least a mile in the wide-open surroundings.

No one had escaped.  Ever.

Outside the gate was a visitor parking area, much larger than needed, and the sun beating down on the concrete made it at least 10 degrees hotter

Louie opened the gate and waved his hand, the invitation to leave the confines of the jail.  He was right.  Despite Lodge, it had become a safe haven, and I wasn’t looking forward to going home.

There were too many memories there, so I’d planned to go somewhere where no one knew who I was.  I just wanted to become invisible.

“Are you expecting anyone?”  He asked.

 “There is no one who would want to see me.  They’re all probably still angry I only got five years.”

“Like I said, it’s an ugly world out there. There’s a bus in about ten minutes.  Goes to the nearest town.  From there you can go anywhere.  Have a nice life, Jack.”

“You too Louie “

The 50-yard walk to the bus stop was like trudging through head-high water, and by the time I got to the stop I was sweating profusely.

Five minutes, I saw a lone car coming along the road and then turning off the road to come to the jail.  A visitor.  There weren’t very many of those people in this jail.  I didn’t get one the whole time I was there.  My family, mother, father, brother, and sister had effectively disowned me. They hadn’t even bothered to come to the trial.

It was not unexpected.  They had disapproved of my choice of Sharon and were not coming to the wedding.  I know she was disappointed.

The car slowed and turned into the car park then slowly made its way to the bus stop.  Was someone else being released today?

It stopped just past the bus’s designated spot and a driver just sat there.  A woman, perhaps the wife or girlfriend of one of the inmates. 

Five minutes, then she got out.  She started walking towards me, with a familiar shape and gait.  It couldn’t be Sharon, but Sharon said she had a sister who’d moved away, who hated her family, and who had been all but exorcised from their collective memory.

Perhaps the fact she worked for the FBI might have had something to do with it because my father had told me Sharon’s family were nothing more than a bunch of petty criminals, and that I should have known better, as fellow law enforcement myself. Perhaps I should have told him that love makes us blind.  The real answer, I didn’t care.

Perhaps I should have.

“Jack Orville?”

I stood.  “Yes.”

“I’m Louise Ranchess, Sharon’s sister, the one they never speak of.  I’ve been investigating your case.”

“Not much use, unless your family wants me to spend the rest of my life in that place behind me.  Is that why you’re here?””My family were murdered about a year after you were incarcerated.  Some might say it was just desserts, but none should die like that.  Your case and theirs are linked, and I’ve been waiting for your release.  I think you were set up.  Sharon called me the night she died, said she had something for me, and that her life was in danger.  I ignored that call.”

“I simply made a wrong call.  And I doubt Sharon was doing anything other than messing with you.  She said she loved winding you up.  There’s no conspiracy here.  I’m sorry for the loss of your family.”

“You were law enforcement.”

“A small county deputy, at the bottom of the ladder.  Traffic violations, and petty crimes.”

“Didn’t you realize the Sherriff was corrupt?”

“He was popular.  People bought him stuff, and treated him nicely because he kept them safe.” 

She snorted.  “Paid handsomely to look the other way.  He was responsible for your debacle.  He had you put on the case, no doubt saying it was your first big case on the road to bigger and better things. It should have been handled by his specialist officer, not an inexperienced rookie.”

I remembered that speech, tied to the fact I was about to be married, and the job was the stepping stone to providing my bride with everything she deserved.  He knew where he was sending me and whom it involved, knowing my thinking would be compromised by my feelings.  I also remembered him saying at the review afterwards he had no idea she would be at the crime scene, and by the time he realised it and arranged for another officer to take over it was too late.  It was an outcome he wanted because by them I had growing suspicions of his corruption and had followed him on several occasions only to find him secretly meeting members of rival crime families.  I thought he was trying to solve their differences, but it was more likely he was taking bribes to inform each of them to the other.  How else could he afford a ski lodge at Aspen?

“He wanted you out of the way Jack.  Long enough to finish what he started and retire as a very rich man.  I didn’t like my family nor did I like Sharon very much, but they were my family and they died horribly.  I can’t help them now, but you were wrongly jailed and I can do something about that.  I just need your help.”

“I’m an ex-con and you’re FBI aren’t you?”

She nodded.  “But treated with kid gloves because of my family.  After 10 years I’m still trying to prove to them I can be trusted.  I just need to break one big case.”

In the distance, I could see the bus coming.  Do I take it and get on with the rest of my life, ir do I accept the offer of getting justice for being wronged, ironically getting help from Sharon’s sister?  Had someone suggested this as a possible outcome of five years in jail I would have laughed at them.

Even now it seemed unbelievable.  No one had cared five years ago, all everyone wanted was a rapid conviction.  I had considered the Sheriff was the only one who would benefit the most from my jailing, but was too lost in grief to do anything about it, and as time passed I didn’t let it eat me up.

No point.  Even now it would be just a case of his word against mine, and who would listen to an ex-con.  I doubted having Louise on my side would carry much sway, given her family connection.  It would just be viewed as revenge.

“My help would not be a help.”

“You want him to get away with it?”

“You know how it works.  Ex-con versus respected law officer.  And your boss will look at the family connection, and come to the same conclusion.”

“Not if we get solid evidence.”

“And how do we do that?”

“He’s sitting in a special room waiting to tell us, right now.  I just need you to ask the right questions.”

I turned and looked at the jail behind me, and then at the bus turning off the main road.  This was a recipe for disaster.  I could tell from the heightened state of her manner and the octave-higher voice that there was more to this story.  Something was not right.

The bus was turning into the carpark.  The jail was beckoning, and would no doubt be happy to swallow me back into the fold and prove Louie right.  I knew instinctively if I got in that car with her, it would be the ticket that would put me back inside.

“You have about 30 seconds to tell me the truth.”

She looked me up and down, trying to decide if I could be trusted.  Considering where we were standing, it wasn’t hard.

“He’s tied up, literally.  The bastard knows everything, and we can get it.  Believe me, with or without you, he’s going to tell me everything.”

I didn’t doubt the sincerity of that statement, whether or not I believed she was unhinged or not.  Perhaps I would be the voice of reason because right now this woman was off the reservation.

Another look at the prison, then the bus, almost upon us, then, decision made.  “Let’s go.  Tell me what this is about on the way.”

For better or worse I’d made my bed.  I just hope I wouldn’t live to regret it.

…

© Charles Heath 2023

…

I was told once that I lacked imagination.

It cost me a relationship and my dream job, and it still hurt.

The thing is, in a situation where, if I could have thought outside the box, it would have saved lives, particularly Sharon’s, the woman I was supposed to marry three days after the event that ended her life.

And, it was my fault.  I accepted responsibility, lost my job, and rightly or wrongly, spent five years of my life in jail, perhaps not the worst thing to happen to me.

What was worse was the knowledge I could have prevented it, and saved her life and five others.  That was harder, almost impossible to live with.  I had never imagined what it would be like without her, because I never imagined I’d fail.

Now I could not imagine what it would be like on the outside, back in the world again, with nothing.

“So Ken, ready to take that giant step for mankind?”

Louie, one of several prison guards I’d got to know over the time I’d been incarcerated, had already delivered my stuff after breakfast after I’d said my goodbyes, and had come back to take on that last journey to the front gate

“You do realise that a high percentage of inmates re-offend within a month or two.  It’s a hard world out there, full of hate and distrust.  Easier just to re-offend and come back to safety.”

“I don’t intend to come back.”  There were 9 other reasons why I didn’t want to return, and one big one. Lodge.  He only had one name, and he didn’t need another.  Survival in those first few months had been my primary concern, and he tried to make it his.

I’d been expecting a visit at breakfast, to let me know it was not safe on the outside, and that I would get my just desserts.  People like Lodge did not like to lose, and he had simmered for years.  Luckily he would never see the outside again.

He didn’t arrive, perhaps because they locked him up but he’d made the threat before. 

“They all say that, but we’ll see.  Let’s go “

Some say the air is different on the outside, but it wasn’t.  The jail complex was in the middle of a large open space, miles from anywhere.  It was there so even if someone escaped they would have to traverse at least a mile in the wide-open surroundings.

No one had escaped.  Ever.

Outside the gate was a visitor parking area, much larger than needed, and the sun beating down on the concrete made it at least 10 degrees hotter

Louie opened the gate and waved his hand, the invitation to leave the confines of the jail.  He was right.  Despite Lodge, it had become a safe haven, and I wasn’t looking forward to going home.

There were too many memories there, so I’d planned to go somewhere where no one knew who I was.  I just wanted to become invisible.

“Are you expecting anyone?”  He asked.

 “There is no one who would want to see me.  They’re all probably still angry I only got five years.”

“Like I said, it’s an ugly world out there. There’s a bus in about ten minutes.  Goes to the nearest town.  From there you can go anywhere.  Have a nice life, Jack.”

“You too Louie “

The 50-yard walk to the bus stop was like trudging through head-high water, and by the time I got to the stop I was sweating profusely.

Five minutes, I saw a lone car coming along the road and then turning off the road to come to the jail.  A visitor.  There weren’t very many of those people in this jail.  I didn’t get one the whole time I was there.  My family, mother, father, brother, and sister had effectively disowned me. They hadn’t even bothered to come to the trial.

It was not unexpected.  They had disapproved of my choice of Sharon and were not coming to the wedding.  I know she was disappointed.

The car slowed and turned into the car park then slowly made its way to the bus stop.  Was someone else being released today?

It stopped just past the bus’s designated spot and a driver just sat there.  A woman, perhaps the wife or girlfriend of one of the inmates. 

Five minutes, then she got out.  She started walking towards me, with a familiar shape and gait.  It couldn’t be Sharon, but Sharon said she had a sister who’d moved away, who hated her family, and who had been all but exorcised from their collective memory.

Perhaps the fact she worked for the FBI might have had something to do with it because my father had told me Sharon’s family were nothing more than a bunch of petty criminals, and that I should have known better, as fellow law enforcement myself. Perhaps I should have told him that love makes us blind.  The real answer, I didn’t care.

Perhaps I should have.

“Jack Orville?”

I stood.  “Yes.”

“I’m Louise Ranchess, Sharon’s sister, the one they never speak of.  I’ve been investigating your case.”

“Not much use, unless your family wants me to spend the rest of my life in that place behind me.  Is that why you’re here?””My family were murdered about a year after you were incarcerated.  Some might say it was just desserts, but none should die like that.  Your case and theirs are linked, and I’ve been waiting for your release.  I think you were set up.  Sharon called me the night she died, said she had something for me, and that her life was in danger.  I ignored that call.”

“I simply made a wrong call.  And I doubt Sharon was doing anything other than messing with you.  She said she loved winding you up.  There’s no conspiracy here.  I’m sorry for the loss of your family.”

“You were law enforcement.”

“A small county deputy, at the bottom of the ladder.  Traffic violations, and petty crimes.”

“Didn’t you realize the Sherriff was corrupt?”

“He was popular.  People bought him stuff, and treated him nicely because he kept them safe.” 

She snorted.  “Paid handsomely to look the other way.  He was responsible for your debacle.  He had you put on the case, no doubt saying it was your first big case on the road to bigger and better things. It should have been handled by his specialist officer, not an inexperienced rookie.”

I remembered that speech, tied to the fact I was about to be married, and the job was the stepping stone to providing my bride with everything she deserved.  He knew where he was sending me and whom it involved, knowing my thinking would be compromised by my feelings.  I also remembered him saying at the review afterwards he had no idea she would be at the crime scene, and by the time he realised it and arranged for another officer to take over it was too late.  It was an outcome he wanted because by them I had growing suspicions of his corruption and had followed him on several occasions only to find him secretly meeting members of rival crime families.  I thought he was trying to solve their differences, but it was more likely he was taking bribes to inform each of them to the other.  How else could he afford a ski lodge at Aspen?

“He wanted you out of the way Jack.  Long enough to finish what he started and retire as a very rich man.  I didn’t like my family nor did I like Sharon very much, but they were my family and they died horribly.  I can’t help them now, but you were wrongly jailed and I can do something about that.  I just need your help.”

“I’m an ex-con and you’re FBI aren’t you?”

She nodded.  “But treated with kid gloves because of my family.  After 10 years I’m still trying to prove to them I can be trusted.  I just need to break one big case.”

In the distance, I could see the bus coming.  Do I take it and get on with the rest of my life, ir do I accept the offer of getting justice for being wronged, ironically getting help from Sharon’s sister?  Had someone suggested this as a possible outcome of five years in jail I would have laughed at them.

Even now it seemed unbelievable.  No one had cared five years ago, all everyone wanted was a rapid conviction.  I had considered the Sheriff was the only one who would benefit the most from my jailing, but was too lost in grief to do anything about it, and as time passed I didn’t let it eat me up.

No point.  Even now it would be just a case of his word against mine, and who would listen to an ex-con.  I doubted having Louise on my side would carry much sway, given her family connection.  It would just be viewed as revenge.

“My help would not be a help.”

“You want him to get away with it?”

“You know how it works.  Ex-con versus respected law officer.  And your boss will look at the family connection, and come to the same conclusion.”

“Not if we get solid evidence.”

“And how do we do that?”

“He’s sitting in a special room waiting to tell us, right now.  I just need you to ask the right questions.”

I turned and looked at the jail behind me, and then at the bus turning off the main road.  This was a recipe for disaster.  I could tell from the heightened state of her manner and the octave-higher voice that there was more to this story.  Something was not right.

The bus was turning into the carpark.  The jail was beckoning, and would no doubt be happy to swallow me back into the fold and prove Louie right.  I knew instinctively if I got in that car with her, it would be the ticket that would put me back inside.

“You have about 30 seconds to tell me the truth.”

She looked me up and down, trying to decide if I could be trusted.  Considering where we were standing, it wasn’t hard.

“He’s tied up, literally.  The bastard knows everything, and we can get it.  Believe me, with or without you, he’s going to tell me everything.”

I didn’t doubt the sincerity of that statement, whether or not I believed she was unhinged or not.  Perhaps I would be the voice of reason because right now this woman was off the reservation.

Another look at the prison, then the bus, almost upon us, then, decision made.  “Let’s go.  Tell me what this is about on the way.”

For better or worse I’d made my bed.  I just hope I wouldn’t live to regret it.

…

© Charles Heath 2023

…

It was not more than twenty minutes since I’d walked in the door after attending the funeral, and then the wake, for my parents who had died in a motor vehicle accident in the south of France.

I’d met a man I’d never seen before who had given me an ancient envelope before he disappeared, in which there was a note and a copy of my father’s will.

The family solicitor, Lawrence Wellingham, who had attended the funeral and who told me he did not have a current will, had visited me not long after I got home, a man who had told me that anyone who said my parents had died, other than from an accident was to be ignored.

With the will had been a letter, my father saying if he died in an accident, it was likely not an accident, and to contact a man called Albert Stritching.

Then, not five minutes after Lawrence Wellingham left, Albert Stritching called.

It was a series of events that defied explanation.

After a few moments to get over the shock of hearing the name so soon, I said, “The same Albert Stritching my fathers said I needed to talk to if anything happened to him?”

“He left you a note?”

“Were you the person at the funeral who handed me the envelope?”

“I didn’t know there was a funeral.  What man?”

“About 70, grey hair, beard, blue Italian suit, brown shoes, the shoes seemed an odd addition.  Tie was old school, Eton, I think.

“Sir Percival.  We all went to school together, a long time ago.  He was what you might call, your father’s boss, mine too for that matter, when I worked in the same department.”

“What did my father, and you, do?”

“That is a long story.  We need to meet, as soon as possible.  What I can tell you, for now, is that you need to be careful.  Do you have anyone with you?”

“No.”

“I assume you are currently at your father’s house?”

“Yes.”

“OK.  Stay there, and I’ll send someone over, just to make sure you’re safe.  Her name is Genevieve, one of our personal protection officers.  Her identification code is your father’s middle name.  You do know it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  Don’t answer the phone, or the door till she gets there.”

It was odd to think that trouble would come to what my father often referred to as hallowed ground.  The house was his sanctuary, a place no one knew about, a place he never invited anyone but family.  Not even close friends.

The thought, or notion, that trouble could visit here was preposterous.

And yet…

I heard the sound of a high-powered motorcycle from the distance, slowly getting louder until it stopped not far from my front door.  Peering through the front window from behind the curtains, I saw a figure dismount, take off the helmet and shake out a lot of blonde hair.

She looked too young to be in personal protection.

Carrying the helmet in one hand, she came up the path to the front door and knocked.

I left the door shut and yelled out, “Who are you?”

“I was sent by Albert Stritching.  My name is Genevieve.”

I opened the door a fraction, leaving the safety chain attached.

“The identification code?”

“Alwyn.”

I closed the door, removed the chain, and opened it for her to pass.  A look down the path to see if anyone was following her, which there was not, and I shut it.

“Anyone call or ring,” she asked, looking around the room.

It was old and musty smelling because it rarely got any sunlight.  The fire I’d lit earlier in the morning before going out, was slowly reviving after I’d put some more wood on the embers.  In another half hour, the temperature in the room would be above freezing.

“No.  What happens now?”

“I stay until Mr Stritching arrives, sometime tomorrow.  In fact, I have been assigned to mind you for the next few days.  All I can tell you is that it is possible your life is in danger.  And your parents were murdered.  We don’t yet know by whom, or why.  I assume your father didn’t tell you what he was doing?”

“Other than going on a well-earned, his words, holiday with my mother, no.”

“I assume you don’t normally stay in this house.”

“Not normally, but I have for the past three and a half months while they were away.  I sometimes house-sit for them.  My father told me that when he got back, we would talk about the future.  I guess that’s impossible now.”

“Didn’t leave anything to read in case of his untimely demise?”

The girl was asking a lot of questions for someone who was supposed to be a bodyguard.  Was she more than that, like another fixer for the same organisation my father now appeared to work for?

“No.”

“Anything at all?”

I decided then and there I was not going to tell this person anything, especially about the note.  “Nothing.  Had the police not come to inform me, they would still be travelling in Europe somewhere, blissfully unaware, a state I’m beginning to wonder may never return.

“Mind if I have a look around, see how secure the place is?”

“Sure.  If you’re staying, there’s a choice of three rooms on the left side of the corridor.  Mine is on the right.”

The notion that I could be in danger seemed to me to be a little over the top.  I had no contact with my father over anything concerning his business.  In fact, I knew very little about his business, being told back then, that he was independently wealthy, whatever that meant, and was free to pick whatever projects he felt like doing.

He was also a diplomat, because we spent time in various countries all over Europe, mostly, and several in Africa because of his fascination with the old British colonies in Tanzania, Uganda, what was once Rhodesia, Nigeria and a few others.  Those appointments were hard on our mother, and I suspect, contributed to her early death.

After that, she often complained about recurring bouts of ‘jungle sickness’, though later I suspected had a lot to do with an alcohol problem.

I had been spending a lot of time in the study/library, a very large room on the ground floor that backed onto the rear garden, with a large veranda with windows floor to ceiling.  The library consisted of thousands of books on every aspect of the British Commonwealth, from when it was East India Company, through the British Empire, to a token amalgamation of sometimes hostile countries.

My father had been working on a book, and he had left notes, exercise books filled with scribbling, scrapbooks with newspaper clippings, some about himself, a ream of typewritten chapters of which some read like a memoir, others like the ramblings of a lecturer.

It was a project, now that he was gone, that I was considering taking up and finishing, perhaps as his legacy.

Oddly, there was not one word of any extracurricular activities, the sort of stuff that would fill a spy novel.

I was just reading a chapter on Uganda, Idi Amin, and a proposal to Princess Anne when I heard a loud bang.  Then another, closer to the study, coming from what I thought was outside the front of the house.

Cautiously I approached the door and peered out.

I could see Genevieve, gun in hand, sweeping for … what?

“Stay in the study,” she said.

I heard her go out the front door and close it behind her.

Five minutes, there were several more gunshots, then silence.

A minute later the front door opened, and I heard what sounded like someone falling on the floor.  I went out, then to the front of the house where, inside the door, there was what looked like a man lying still on the floor, blood stains beside it.

A few seconds after that Genevieve came in and closed the door.  “We have a problem.”  She had a phone to her ear, waiting.  Then, “Send the cleaners.  They sent two assassins, got the Professor, and I got them.  The Professor needs medical help as soon as possible.”

That was the extent of the call.  She looked at me.  “You got a medical kit,”

“Yes.”  I went back to the study and got what was a briefcase with a red cross on it.  It was more sophisticated than the usual medical kit a house would have.  It was more suited to a doctor’s surgery.

I brought it to her.  She had the man lying on his back, and I could see who it was.

The man at the funeral who gave me the yellow envelope.

…

© Charles Heath 2023

…

It was not more than twenty minutes since I’d walked in the door after attending the funeral, and then the wake, for my parents who had died in a motor vehicle accident in the south of France.

I’d met a man I’d never seen before who had given me an ancient envelope before he disappeared, in which there was a note and a copy of my father’s will.

The family solicitor, Lawrence Wellingham, who had attended the funeral and who told me he did not have a current will, had visited me not long after I got home, a man who had told me that anyone who said my parents had died, other than from an accident was to be ignored.

With the will had been a letter, my father saying if he died in an accident, it was likely not an accident, and to contact a man called Albert Stritching.

Then, not five minutes after Lawrence Wellingham left, Albert Stritching called.

It was a series of events that defied explanation.

After a few moments to get over the shock of hearing the name so soon, I said, “The same Albert Stritching my fathers said I needed to talk to if anything happened to him?”

“He left you a note?”

“Were you the person at the funeral who handed me the envelope?”

“I didn’t know there was a funeral.  What man?”

“About 70, grey hair, beard, blue Italian suit, brown shoes, the shoes seemed an odd addition.  Tie was old school, Eton, I think.

“Sir Percival.  We all went to school together, a long time ago.  He was what you might call, your father’s boss, mine too for that matter, when I worked in the same department.”

“What did my father, and you, do?”

“That is a long story.  We need to meet, as soon as possible.  What I can tell you, for now, is that you need to be careful.  Do you have anyone with you?”

“No.”

“I assume you are currently at your father’s house?”

“Yes.”

“OK.  Stay there, and I’ll send someone over, just to make sure you’re safe.  Her name is Genevieve, one of our personal protection officers.  Her identification code is your father’s middle name.  You do know it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.  Don’t answer the phone, or the door till she gets there.”

It was odd to think that trouble would come to what my father often referred to as hallowed ground.  The house was his sanctuary, a place no one knew about, a place he never invited anyone but family.  Not even close friends.

The thought, or notion, that trouble could visit here was preposterous.

And yet…

I heard the sound of a high-powered motorcycle from the distance, slowly getting louder until it stopped not far from my front door.  Peering through the front window from behind the curtains, I saw a figure dismount, take off the helmet and shake out a lot of blonde hair.

She looked too young to be in personal protection.

Carrying the helmet in one hand, she came up the path to the front door and knocked.

I left the door shut and yelled out, “Who are you?”

“I was sent by Albert Stritching.  My name is Genevieve.”

I opened the door a fraction, leaving the safety chain attached.

“The identification code?”

“Alwyn.”

I closed the door, removed the chain, and opened it for her to pass.  A look down the path to see if anyone was following her, which there was not, and I shut it.

“Anyone call or ring,” she asked, looking around the room.

It was old and musty smelling because it rarely got any sunlight.  The fire I’d lit earlier in the morning before going out, was slowly reviving after I’d put some more wood on the embers.  In another half hour, the temperature in the room would be above freezing.

“No.  What happens now?”

“I stay until Mr Stritching arrives, sometime tomorrow.  In fact, I have been assigned to mind you for the next few days.  All I can tell you is that it is possible your life is in danger.  And your parents were murdered.  We don’t yet know by whom, or why.  I assume your father didn’t tell you what he was doing?”

“Other than going on a well-earned, his words, holiday with my mother, no.”

“I assume you don’t normally stay in this house.”

“Not normally, but I have for the past three and a half months while they were away.  I sometimes house-sit for them.  My father told me that when he got back, we would talk about the future.  I guess that’s impossible now.”

“Didn’t leave anything to read in case of his untimely demise?”

The girl was asking a lot of questions for someone who was supposed to be a bodyguard.  Was she more than that, like another fixer for the same organisation my father now appeared to work for?

“No.”

“Anything at all?”

I decided then and there I was not going to tell this person anything, especially about the note.  “Nothing.  Had the police not come to inform me, they would still be travelling in Europe somewhere, blissfully unaware, a state I’m beginning to wonder may never return.

“Mind if I have a look around, see how secure the place is?”

“Sure.  If you’re staying, there’s a choice of three rooms on the left side of the corridor.  Mine is on the right.”

The notion that I could be in danger seemed to me to be a little over the top.  I had no contact with my father over anything concerning his business.  In fact, I knew very little about his business, being told back then, that he was independently wealthy, whatever that meant, and was free to pick whatever projects he felt like doing.

He was also a diplomat, because we spent time in various countries all over Europe, mostly, and several in Africa because of his fascination with the old British colonies in Tanzania, Uganda, what was once Rhodesia, Nigeria and a few others.  Those appointments were hard on our mother, and I suspect, contributed to her early death.

After that, she often complained about recurring bouts of ‘jungle sickness’, though later I suspected had a lot to do with an alcohol problem.

I had been spending a lot of time in the study/library, a very large room on the ground floor that backed onto the rear garden, with a large veranda with windows floor to ceiling.  The library consisted of thousands of books on every aspect of the British Commonwealth, from when it was East India Company, through the British Empire, to a token amalgamation of sometimes hostile countries.

My father had been working on a book, and he had left notes, exercise books filled with scribbling, scrapbooks with newspaper clippings, some about himself, a ream of typewritten chapters of which some read like a memoir, others like the ramblings of a lecturer.

It was a project, now that he was gone, that I was considering taking up and finishing, perhaps as his legacy.

Oddly, there was not one word of any extracurricular activities, the sort of stuff that would fill a spy novel.

I was just reading a chapter on Uganda, Idi Amin, and a proposal to Princess Anne when I heard a loud bang.  Then another, closer to the study, coming from what I thought was outside the front of the house.

Cautiously I approached the door and peered out.

I could see Genevieve, gun in hand, sweeping for … what?

“Stay in the study,” she said.

I heard her go out the front door and close it behind her.

Five minutes, there were several more gunshots, then silence.

A minute later the front door opened, and I heard what sounded like someone falling on the floor.  I went out, then to the front of the house where, inside the door, there was what looked like a man lying still on the floor, blood stains beside it.

A few seconds after that Genevieve came in and closed the door.  “We have a problem.”  She had a phone to her ear, waiting.  Then, “Send the cleaners.  They sent two assassins, got the Professor, and I got them.  The Professor needs medical help as soon as possible.”

That was the extent of the call.  She looked at me.  “You got a medical kit,”

“Yes.”  I went back to the study and got what was a briefcase with a red cross on it.  It was more sophisticated than the usual medical kit a house would have.  It was more suited to a doctor’s surgery.

I brought it to her.  She had the man lying on his back, and I could see who it was.

The man at the funeral who gave me the yellow envelope.

…

© Charles Heath 2023

…

It was a cold, overcast, wet day.  Everywhere was wet from the last downpour, which made it difficult to take the shortcut across the grass in the park.  More rain was imminent.

I was, as usual, running late for the appointment, having not factored in train cancellations and unseasonal weather.

It was not far from where I entered the park, and I could see the bench was empty, which meant my contact was also running late.  Perhaps I might be saved a bollocking today.

For the last forty yards, the direct line of sight to the bench would be lost for a short time, and when I finally got it back in sight, someone was sitting on it, and it definitely was not the person I was meeting. It looked like a young girl, a university student, or a clerk.  Definitely not the usual contact. Not any more.

Protocol said that if there was a stranger at the meeting place, we were to walk away and reschedule.  I was not one for following the rules.

When on the final few yards, I felt my cell phone vibrate and pulled it out.  A message.  “Substituted contact with replacement given a very tight timeline.  She will brief you, her name is Heather Knowles, and the codeword for authentication is 1 spark.  The mission starts at the end of the briefing.  Play nice.”

I had no idea the department was recruiting so young, or perhaps I was used to working with many older people.

I sat down at the other end of the bench and could feel rather than see her looking at me.  I turned to look at her, a serious expression on her face.  No humour today, then.

“Heather?”

“Are you the bright spark?”

“Twenty years ago, maybe, but not today.”   She made it sound like an intended, thinly disguised insult.

“Let’s walk.”  She stood and inclined her head in the direction we would be going. 

I wondered if she had the same thought I did, a man walking in the park with a girl half his age.  It was odd that Charmaine, my usual handler, would make a meeting such as this look so out of place.  Perhaps she thought it might look like a father-daughter meeting.

“Charmaine told me you were one of her best operatives.”

Start with a compliment, that meant something a whole lot worse than I could imagine was about to happen.

“One of many, I wouldn’t say one of the best.  Not after the last operation.  Just to warn you, this call-up was unexpected.  My last mission went south, and I wasn’t expecting a recall so soon.”

Everything would have been fine if we had not been subject to on-the-spot oversight in the name of transparency, a new initiative by what we used to call ‘the powers that be’.  The person I was assigned to protect had been betrayed and had been killed, and I nearly died in the escape.  The sole survivor, just, I’d spent a month in the hospital and another three recuperating.

“As you are all too well aware, situations develop quickly, sometimes too quickly.  We have been given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, if the intel is correct, and we have no reason to believe it isn’t.  You are along for the ride because of your expert knowledge, but just a heads up, you are also being assessed for ongoing participation or retirement.

“You the assessor?”

“Me, no.  I’m relatively new, and this will be my first major operation.  Charmaine tells me that having you along will teach me very valuable lessons.”

As I assumed, babysitting.  Every now and then a senior officer was allotted a new recruit and told not to get him or her killed.  I’d managed to dodge that bullet, but not any more.  I just hoped it was something easy.  I remembered my first operation.  No one to guide me, just a jump into the deep end and you either sank or swum.  I shrugged.  “The message said the operation starts at the end of whatever this is.  What is it?”

“Let’s find a Cafe.  I could do with a coffee.”

“I read up on your case file notes for the last operation, that one where Jackson got the drop on all of us.  Crosschecked with other Intel, it seems that you were deliberately set up to fail.  Of course, while the evidence points to one particular person, we have no proof, and, of course, that person can find any number of excuses to dodge responsibility.  I’m sure you think you know who it is too.”

“I have one or two candidates in mind.”

She smiled when the waitress came over with the coffee and a small banoffee pie.  She’s offered to get me one, but my taste, boring as it was, ran to apple pies which they didn’t have.  Then, after she had gone, and Heather had tasted the coffee, she turned her attention back to me.

“The operation has two objectives, to draw out the mole, we’ve decided to call this person a mole, and to surprise Jackson in a place where he thinks he is totally safe.  Yes, a bold move on a slippery son-of-a-bitch, but this time, he’s not going to get away.”

Young and naive, I thought.  Jackson was always a slippery customer, and always when we just about had him on the hook.  Going back into the fray, up against him, the man with a thousand eyes and ears everywhere, so soon, was a little daunting.  And he would be expecting us.

“Few have tried, many have failed, myself included.  My specialist knowledge will only be how to escape alive when he turns the tables on us, yet again.”

She smiled.  “Oh, ye of little faith.  I come from a new generation of agents, we’re meaner, sneakier, and for this mission at least, we can shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Oversight?”

“Yes, well, he’s in for a treat, isn’t he when he finds out, well after the clock has struck twelve.  We’re going old school, and involving the need-to-know principle, and oversight just doesn’t need to know.”

“He’ll find out.  Everyone is a snitch looking for a favour these days.  Our service is looking more and more like the Stasi.”

Another of her winning smiles.  “All those who need to know, know, now.  That’s three.  The boss isn’t going to tell anyone, I’m certainly not, and I doubt you share anything with anyone.  What does the G, middle name, represent?”

“Need to know, and you don’t.  When is this operation taking place?”

“Tonight.  You have about 6 hours to fortify the nerves, and then there will be a briefing.  There are three others who will be along for the ride also, and I think you will approve.  Now, I’m afraid I can’t let you out of my sight until then, so tell me what you’d like to do.”

I had a suggestion, but I kept it to myself.  If she didn’t trust me, she should say so, but it didn’t bother me.  I had a trusty book of cryptic crosswords and an addiction to coffee.  Maybe I might even ask her to tell me more about herself.”

Six hours passed quickly, and when the time came, we were picked up in a plain white van and taken to a disused factory.  It seemed an odd place to have a team briefing.  But she was right about the support team.  They were well-known to me and were the best extraction team the department had.

The fact that we were using an extraction team told me the mission was going to be difficult if not very dangerous.  Anything regarding Jackson was.

“The plan is simple, Jake, your team covers the exits.  There are three.  We’re not stepping on eggshells this time. Just shoot anything that moves.  Given the location, there will not be any innocent bystanders to worry about.  Ken and I will go in and take the targets.  Once secure, we bring them back here for interrogation.  We all have a reason to bring Jackson down, but remember, we need him, and the person he’s meeting is alive.”

“Where is this happening?” I asked.

“Patience.  N9 one has a cell phone on them if you have to leave it behind.  No one is on their own until the op starts. It’s not a lack of trust, it’s keeping it all under wraps until we strike, every other time he’s seen us coming.  Not this time.  Let’s go.  I’m driving.”

I got it.  This was so secret, no one was supposed to know before we got there.  Charmaine must have thought long and hard about how every other operation had been compromised and brought it a fresh face to run it. What did bother me was the ‘we all have a reason to bring Jackson down…”

I guessed soon find out.

As darkness fell, we drove out of the city and towards the hills that surrounded the city, and it looked like we were heading to the haven of the rich, a community of cabins nestled in the woods, each with privacy, and security guards that kept it so.  I had been there once before to pay Jackson a visit and didn’t get past first base.  This was going to get interesting.

An hour later, very dark, very quiet, we were half a mile from the gatehouse on the one road in or out.  The van was parked, we changed into dark coveralls and black beanies, took two guns and spare ammo, and finally put in the comms devices.  Heather then gave the extraction team each a device.  “You can now see where the security guards are.  These guys are mercenaries, so don’t treat them with kid gloves.  We don’t need any of them interrupting the part.  Ken, let us know when you out have the gatehouse.”

Seconds later we were alone, the others disappearing into the forest.  The darkness was almost complete, any moonlight blocked out by the trees.  Heather also had a device and switched it on.  Immediately, eight blips came up on the screen, evenly spaced over what looked like a wide area.  The guards on patrol.

A crooked line came up also, with a different blip, what I thought must be us, and a path to the cabin where our targets were.  She pushed a button, and another blip appeared.  “The traitor,” was all she said before she headed into the forest. 

Over the next fifteen minutes, Ken reported the gatehouse was secure, and six of the eight blips disappeared from the screen.  I didn’t ask what that meant.

Then we came out of the forest into a clearing that had a cabin, with two cars parked out front.  “There are two personal guards for Jackson, one inside, one out.”

A quick scan located the outside guard over by the cars having a cigarette.  Obviously, they did not think that anyone was going to bother their boss tonight. Wrong. By the time he realised there was going to be trouble, he was down, trussed, and silenced.

“You take the back, I’ll go in the front.  Let me know when you’re ready to go in.”

Five minutes.  As I was about to step onto the porch, the other guard came out, totally unprepared, and I took him down, quickly and quietly the moment he stepped off the porch, and in the process of lighting a cigarette.  Smoking kills was very apt.

I told her I was ready.

“Now.”

We stepped into the cabin at the same time.  Jackson had a gun, but Heather shot it out of his hand before he could use it.  The other man, the traitor, was exactly who I thought it was.

He glared at me, then switched to Heather, the surprise turning to shock.

“Heather.”

“Hello, Daddy, fancy meeting you here.”

…

© Charles Heath  2023

…

It was a cold, overcast, wet day.  Everywhere was wet from the last downpour, which made it difficult to take the shortcut across the grass in the park.  More rain was imminent.

I was, as usual, running late for the appointment, having not factored in train cancellations and unseasonal weather.

It was not far from where I entered the park, and I could see the bench was empty, which meant my contact was also running late.  Perhaps I might be saved a bollocking today.

For the last forty yards, the direct line of sight to the bench would be lost for a short time, and when I finally got it back in sight, someone was sitting on it, and it definitely was not the person I was meeting. It looked like a young girl, a university student, or a clerk.  Definitely not the usual contact. Not any more.

Protocol said that if there was a stranger at the meeting place, we were to walk away and reschedule.  I was not one for following the rules.

When on the final few yards, I felt my cell phone vibrate and pulled it out.  A message.  “Substituted contact with replacement given a very tight timeline.  She will brief you, her name is Heather Knowles, and the codeword for authentication is 1 spark.  The mission starts at the end of the briefing.  Play nice.”

I had no idea the department was recruiting so young, or perhaps I was used to working with many older people.

I sat down at the other end of the bench and could feel rather than see her looking at me.  I turned to look at her, a serious expression on her face.  No humour today, then.

“Heather?”

“Are you the bright spark?”

“Twenty years ago, maybe, but not today.”   She made it sound like an intended, thinly disguised insult.

“Let’s walk.”  She stood and inclined her head in the direction we would be going. 

I wondered if she had the same thought I did, a man walking in the park with a girl half his age.  It was odd that Charmaine, my usual handler, would make a meeting such as this look so out of place.  Perhaps she thought it might look like a father-daughter meeting.

“Charmaine told me you were one of her best operatives.”

Start with a compliment, that meant something a whole lot worse than I could imagine was about to happen.

“One of many, I wouldn’t say one of the best.  Not after the last operation.  Just to warn you, this call-up was unexpected.  My last mission went south, and I wasn’t expecting a recall so soon.”

Everything would have been fine if we had not been subject to on-the-spot oversight in the name of transparency, a new initiative by what we used to call ‘the powers that be’.  The person I was assigned to protect had been betrayed and had been killed, and I nearly died in the escape.  The sole survivor, just, I’d spent a month in the hospital and another three recuperating.

“As you are all too well aware, situations develop quickly, sometimes too quickly.  We have been given a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, if the intel is correct, and we have no reason to believe it isn’t.  You are along for the ride because of your expert knowledge, but just a heads up, you are also being assessed for ongoing participation or retirement.

“You the assessor?”

“Me, no.  I’m relatively new, and this will be my first major operation.  Charmaine tells me that having you along will teach me very valuable lessons.”

As I assumed, babysitting.  Every now and then a senior officer was allotted a new recruit and told not to get him or her killed.  I’d managed to dodge that bullet, but not any more.  I just hoped it was something easy.  I remembered my first operation.  No one to guide me, just a jump into the deep end and you either sank or swum.  I shrugged.  “The message said the operation starts at the end of whatever this is.  What is it?”

“Let’s find a Cafe.  I could do with a coffee.”

“I read up on your case file notes for the last operation, that one where Jackson got the drop on all of us.  Crosschecked with other Intel, it seems that you were deliberately set up to fail.  Of course, while the evidence points to one particular person, we have no proof, and, of course, that person can find any number of excuses to dodge responsibility.  I’m sure you think you know who it is too.”

“I have one or two candidates in mind.”

She smiled when the waitress came over with the coffee and a small banoffee pie.  She’s offered to get me one, but my taste, boring as it was, ran to apple pies which they didn’t have.  Then, after she had gone, and Heather had tasted the coffee, she turned her attention back to me.

“The operation has two objectives, to draw out the mole, we’ve decided to call this person a mole, and to surprise Jackson in a place where he thinks he is totally safe.  Yes, a bold move on a slippery son-of-a-bitch, but this time, he’s not going to get away.”

Young and naive, I thought.  Jackson was always a slippery customer, and always when we just about had him on the hook.  Going back into the fray, up against him, the man with a thousand eyes and ears everywhere, so soon, was a little daunting.  And he would be expecting us.

“Few have tried, many have failed, myself included.  My specialist knowledge will only be how to escape alive when he turns the tables on us, yet again.”

She smiled.  “Oh, ye of little faith.  I come from a new generation of agents, we’re meaner, sneakier, and for this mission at least, we can shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Oversight?”

“Yes, well, he’s in for a treat, isn’t he when he finds out, well after the clock has struck twelve.  We’re going old school, and involving the need-to-know principle, and oversight just doesn’t need to know.”

“He’ll find out.  Everyone is a snitch looking for a favour these days.  Our service is looking more and more like the Stasi.”

Another of her winning smiles.  “All those who need to know, know, now.  That’s three.  The boss isn’t going to tell anyone, I’m certainly not, and I doubt you share anything with anyone.  What does the G, middle name, represent?”

“Need to know, and you don’t.  When is this operation taking place?”

“Tonight.  You have about 6 hours to fortify the nerves, and then there will be a briefing.  There are three others who will be along for the ride also, and I think you will approve.  Now, I’m afraid I can’t let you out of my sight until then, so tell me what you’d like to do.”

I had a suggestion, but I kept it to myself.  If she didn’t trust me, she should say so, but it didn’t bother me.  I had a trusty book of cryptic crosswords and an addiction to coffee.  Maybe I might even ask her to tell me more about herself.”

Six hours passed quickly, and when the time came, we were picked up in a plain white van and taken to a disused factory.  It seemed an odd place to have a team briefing.  But she was right about the support team.  They were well-known to me and were the best extraction team the department had.

The fact that we were using an extraction team told me the mission was going to be difficult if not very dangerous.  Anything regarding Jackson was.

“The plan is simple, Jake, your team covers the exits.  There are three.  We’re not stepping on eggshells this time. Just shoot anything that moves.  Given the location, there will not be any innocent bystanders to worry about.  Ken and I will go in and take the targets.  Once secure, we bring them back here for interrogation.  We all have a reason to bring Jackson down, but remember, we need him, and the person he’s meeting is alive.”

“Where is this happening?” I asked.

“Patience.  N9 one has a cell phone on them if you have to leave it behind.  No one is on their own until the op starts. It’s not a lack of trust, it’s keeping it all under wraps until we strike, every other time he’s seen us coming.  Not this time.  Let’s go.  I’m driving.”

I got it.  This was so secret, no one was supposed to know before we got there.  Charmaine must have thought long and hard about how every other operation had been compromised and brought it a fresh face to run it. What did bother me was the ‘we all have a reason to bring Jackson down…”

I guessed soon find out.

As darkness fell, we drove out of the city and towards the hills that surrounded the city, and it looked like we were heading to the haven of the rich, a community of cabins nestled in the woods, each with privacy, and security guards that kept it so.  I had been there once before to pay Jackson a visit and didn’t get past first base.  This was going to get interesting.

An hour later, very dark, very quiet, we were half a mile from the gatehouse on the one road in or out.  The van was parked, we changed into dark coveralls and black beanies, took two guns and spare ammo, and finally put in the comms devices.  Heather then gave the extraction team each a device.  “You can now see where the security guards are.  These guys are mercenaries, so don’t treat them with kid gloves.  We don’t need any of them interrupting the part.  Ken, let us know when you out have the gatehouse.”

Seconds later we were alone, the others disappearing into the forest.  The darkness was almost complete, any moonlight blocked out by the trees.  Heather also had a device and switched it on.  Immediately, eight blips came up on the screen, evenly spaced over what looked like a wide area.  The guards on patrol.

A crooked line came up also, with a different blip, what I thought must be us, and a path to the cabin where our targets were.  She pushed a button, and another blip appeared.  “The traitor,” was all she said before she headed into the forest. 

Over the next fifteen minutes, Ken reported the gatehouse was secure, and six of the eight blips disappeared from the screen.  I didn’t ask what that meant.

Then we came out of the forest into a clearing that had a cabin, with two cars parked out front.  “There are two personal guards for Jackson, one inside, one out.”

A quick scan located the outside guard over by the cars having a cigarette.  Obviously, they did not think that anyone was going to bother their boss tonight. Wrong. By the time he realised there was going to be trouble, he was down, trussed, and silenced.

“You take the back, I’ll go in the front.  Let me know when you’re ready to go in.”

Five minutes.  As I was about to step onto the porch, the other guard came out, totally unprepared, and I took him down, quickly and quietly the moment he stepped off the porch, and in the process of lighting a cigarette.  Smoking kills was very apt.

I told her I was ready.

“Now.”

We stepped into the cabin at the same time.  Jackson had a gun, but Heather shot it out of his hand before he could use it.  The other man, the traitor, was exactly who I thought it was.

He glared at me, then switched to Heather, the surprise turning to shock.

“Heather.”

“Hello, Daddy, fancy meeting you here.”

…

© Charles Heath  2023