Day 168

Writing exercise

…

“Let me tell you a story you are not going to like.”

I remember like it was yesterday, the day my father came home from work earlier than usual, and instead of the usual greeting, shuffled from the front door to the study at the back of the house, shut the door, and didn’t come out until dinner time.

I remember my mother, after the exchange of looks as he went past, the slight nod of the head to say ‘not now’, and how it took her a minute before she resumed her pre-dinner chores.

I remember David, the youngest, Eloise, the middle, and me, Richard, the eldest son, watching briefly, and thinking nothing of it. We were too young to understand the way of the world outside grade school.

At dinner, that was the first thing my father said after we finished eating.

We didn’t understand what it meant, but we were disciplined enough to not question him.

“I had this speech all worked out, how to put the whole situation into perspective, but I forgot one very important element. You guys will have no idea what I’m talking about. I guess, to a certain degree, I don’t either. I come from a time where it wasn’t expedient pr possible to get a good enough education, not like what people need these days to just get out the door. We needed everyone working, and school was just a luxury we couldn’t.

“Then we got through the worst times, got better, employers retrained their employees, and it was full steam ahead. In prosperous times, everyone is looked after; in downturns, like the one we have been drifting into for several years, people are not so lucky.

“People like me. The problem, I was told today, by people who know much more about these things than I do, and in fact a lot of us at the factory, is that Americans are no longer buying American-made, and are buying cheaper imports from Asian countries.

“That forces the companies, like the one I work for, to try and cut costs to compete. They tried, they said, and I have been lucky in avoiding the last three sets of layoffs, but now they’ve decided to close the factory. It is no longer profitable. I’m not the only one affected. This factory sustained this town; it’s been the lifeblood of everyone who lives here.”

My mother had tears in her eyes. She knew what his words meant. “When?”

“Two weeks. We’ll get a severance check, but it will only sustain us for a few months, if we’re lucky.”

I figured something bad had happened at the factory because our teacher had said the whole town had been living on a knife edge, a curious expression that I asked him about, and he had said was like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel, which I sort of understood, and thought
I’d ask a practical question.

“Does that mean we won’t have to go to school anymore?”

“No. You will all be at school until we work out what we’re going to do.”

“Well, that’s probably not as difficult as it sounds. My parents said I could come back anytime I wanted, and this might be the time.”

What might have been suggested as a practical solution might have received a hearing, but given the conversation my father had with my mother’s father the last time they visited, about a year ago, still indelibly etched in my mind, I doubted he would want to hear it.

“We spoke about that when things were fine, and I accepted it. You know, and I know, I consciously made a decision when we were married that we would live here and I wouldn’t have to work. I wanted that, and here we are.”

“You know what happened the last time you worked for your father.”

That conversation I overheard didn’t sound like she worked for him; it sounded like she had been his personal slave, or so my father said, and it would be over his dead body that she would come back.

Words were said that couldn’t be taken back. It’s why her parents, our grandparents, had never returned, and it was something that annoyed my mother. No one would tell her the reason why. Of course, she could have asked me.

I guess that was the problem with being a kid. Everyone thought you should be seen and not heard. And people just pretended you were not there. That wasn’t the only conversation that I had overheard between my father and others, and between my mother and others.

“This time it would be different. I’m a lot older and much more resilient.”

“He hasn’t changed. People like him never change.”

I could see the looks exchanged between them were headed for an argument where one of the others would say something awful and storm out, and we would be living in what the three of us children called hell. It was fear, of course, because lately, the mood turned to the latent threat of violence. We had talked about it at school, the fact that sometimes fathers and mothers got angry, and sometimes they took that anger out on each other, or worse, their children. It had led to one of the kids in my class saying he had seen his father hitting his mother, and the sheriff had been called in. Violence like that, we were told, was not acceptable.

“Well,” I said, “I have a thought. I read it in a story, in a book we had to read in class. It was about a family whose house had burned to the ground. They were not able to pay their insurance premiums, but what that had to do with anything is not the point. The point is, they lost everything. Or at least they thought they had, until someone pointed out they still had each other. Come to think of it, the preacher down at the church is always telling us that no matter what happens, we still have each other, which is strange in a sense because he doesn’t have anyone else. But we’re all here. Isn’t that a good thing?”

Both of them glared at me. Time to consider an exit strategy.

Then my mother laughed. Was it hysteria? I’d seen her laugh once before and then burst into tears.

“Maybe Richie has a point, Doug.”

“We still have to live.” Not so hostile now.

“But the thing is, like ot or not, we have options. Most of those at the factory, except the University types and the bosses, have nothing. As much as it sounds like the end of the world, and for a moment there I thought it was, it isn’t. We’re just forgetting what’s important.”

Then she turned to me. “You’re right about the preacher, but he would tell you he has his flock, which is his family. And he does go on about stuff, doesn’t he?”

…

That was the summer when a once-thriving town turned into a ghost town. It was where, when
I was much older and, as my father called it, properly educated, when I discovered it was all part of fitting into the global economy. I had dreamed of becoming an accountant, like my mother, but in the end decided to become a bookshop owner, if only to make sure there was at least one place in the world where people could buy real books.

We went back to New York and spent a few years with my mother’s parents, where my father got a job that he liked and my mother toiled autonomously from her father, making enough money to get us a nice place in the country where she and my father could retire, and I could have my bookshop in the town, by the sea.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 168

Writing exercise

…

“Let me tell you a story you are not going to like.”

I remember like it was yesterday, the day my father came home from work earlier than usual, and instead of the usual greeting, shuffled from the front door to the study at the back of the house, shut the door, and didn’t come out until dinner time.

I remember my mother, after the exchange of looks as he went past, the slight nod of the head to say ‘not now’, and how it took her a minute before she resumed her pre-dinner chores.

I remember David, the youngest, Eloise, the middle, and me, Richard, the eldest son, watching briefly, and thinking nothing of it. We were too young to understand the way of the world outside grade school.

At dinner, that was the first thing my father said after we finished eating.

We didn’t understand what it meant, but we were disciplined enough to not question him.

“I had this speech all worked out, how to put the whole situation into perspective, but I forgot one very important element. You guys will have no idea what I’m talking about. I guess, to a certain degree, I don’t either. I come from a time where it wasn’t expedient pr possible to get a good enough education, not like what people need these days to just get out the door. We needed everyone working, and school was just a luxury we couldn’t.

“Then we got through the worst times, got better, employers retrained their employees, and it was full steam ahead. In prosperous times, everyone is looked after; in downturns, like the one we have been drifting into for several years, people are not so lucky.

“People like me. The problem, I was told today, by people who know much more about these things than I do, and in fact a lot of us at the factory, is that Americans are no longer buying American-made, and are buying cheaper imports from Asian countries.

“That forces the companies, like the one I work for, to try and cut costs to compete. They tried, they said, and I have been lucky in avoiding the last three sets of layoffs, but now they’ve decided to close the factory. It is no longer profitable. I’m not the only one affected. This factory sustained this town; it’s been the lifeblood of everyone who lives here.”

My mother had tears in her eyes. She knew what his words meant. “When?”

“Two weeks. We’ll get a severance check, but it will only sustain us for a few months, if we’re lucky.”

I figured something bad had happened at the factory because our teacher had said the whole town had been living on a knife edge, a curious expression that I asked him about, and he had said was like going over Niagara Falls in a barrel, which I sort of understood, and thought
I’d ask a practical question.

“Does that mean we won’t have to go to school anymore?”

“No. You will all be at school until we work out what we’re going to do.”

“Well, that’s probably not as difficult as it sounds. My parents said I could come back anytime I wanted, and this might be the time.”

What might have been suggested as a practical solution might have received a hearing, but given the conversation my father had with my mother’s father the last time they visited, about a year ago, still indelibly etched in my mind, I doubted he would want to hear it.

“We spoke about that when things were fine, and I accepted it. You know, and I know, I consciously made a decision when we were married that we would live here and I wouldn’t have to work. I wanted that, and here we are.”

“You know what happened the last time you worked for your father.”

That conversation I overheard didn’t sound like she worked for him; it sounded like she had been his personal slave, or so my father said, and it would be over his dead body that she would come back.

Words were said that couldn’t be taken back. It’s why her parents, our grandparents, had never returned, and it was something that annoyed my mother. No one would tell her the reason why. Of course, she could have asked me.

I guess that was the problem with being a kid. Everyone thought you should be seen and not heard. And people just pretended you were not there. That wasn’t the only conversation that I had overheard between my father and others, and between my mother and others.

“This time it would be different. I’m a lot older and much more resilient.”

“He hasn’t changed. People like him never change.”

I could see the looks exchanged between them were headed for an argument where one of the others would say something awful and storm out, and we would be living in what the three of us children called hell. It was fear, of course, because lately, the mood turned to the latent threat of violence. We had talked about it at school, the fact that sometimes fathers and mothers got angry, and sometimes they took that anger out on each other, or worse, their children. It had led to one of the kids in my class saying he had seen his father hitting his mother, and the sheriff had been called in. Violence like that, we were told, was not acceptable.

“Well,” I said, “I have a thought. I read it in a story, in a book we had to read in class. It was about a family whose house had burned to the ground. They were not able to pay their insurance premiums, but what that had to do with anything is not the point. The point is, they lost everything. Or at least they thought they had, until someone pointed out they still had each other. Come to think of it, the preacher down at the church is always telling us that no matter what happens, we still have each other, which is strange in a sense because he doesn’t have anyone else. But we’re all here. Isn’t that a good thing?”

Both of them glared at me. Time to consider an exit strategy.

Then my mother laughed. Was it hysteria? I’d seen her laugh once before and then burst into tears.

“Maybe Richie has a point, Doug.”

“We still have to live.” Not so hostile now.

“But the thing is, like ot or not, we have options. Most of those at the factory, except the University types and the bosses, have nothing. As much as it sounds like the end of the world, and for a moment there I thought it was, it isn’t. We’re just forgetting what’s important.”

Then she turned to me. “You’re right about the preacher, but he would tell you he has his flock, which is his family. And he does go on about stuff, doesn’t he?”

…

That was the summer when a once-thriving town turned into a ghost town. It was where, when
I was much older and, as my father called it, properly educated, when I discovered it was all part of fitting into the global economy. I had dreamed of becoming an accountant, like my mother, but in the end decided to become a bookshop owner, if only to make sure there was at least one place in the world where people could buy real books.

We went back to New York and spent a few years with my mother’s parents, where my father got a job that he liked and my mother toiled autonomously from her father, making enough money to get us a nice place in the country where she and my father could retire, and I could have my bookshop in the town, by the sea.

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 167

Where banks store money in vaults, writers store snippets in journals

The most important item in the writer’s warehouse – the journal.

…

Quite often the journal could be mistaken for a diary. A lot of people keep diaries; in fact, it’s a staple plot item in a lot of movies, that when a character needs to have their life fleshed out, a diary will be found, and read, giving a detailed view of the life and times.

A lot of people keep a diary to write down significant things that happen, sometimes who they met, and if something or someone had an influence on their life.

I know I used to keep one that detailed the stories I was writing, or hoped to write one day, with progress, characters, plot lines and generally how the day worked out.

When I found that I did not have an hour to spare in the day to write it up, it went by the wayside. I used to have a series of diaries for about ten years, back in the old days when time was not at a premium, but they seemed to have got lost in the moves from before to just after I got married, and yes, became a father and lost all sense of time and perspective.

But..

The journal.

Yes, I have one, or perhaps I should say I have about five or six, one for each project I’m currently working on, and they quite often get an update at the end of the day. With children grown up and grandchildren almost past their teens, and in retirement, I have been able to go back to where I started 50 years ago.

If you want an opinion, start and maintain a journal. It helps.

Day 167

Where banks store money in vaults, writers store snippets in journals

The most important item in the writer’s warehouse – the journal.

…

Quite often the journal could be mistaken for a diary. A lot of people keep diaries; in fact, it’s a staple plot item in a lot of movies, that when a character needs to have their life fleshed out, a diary will be found, and read, giving a detailed view of the life and times.

A lot of people keep a diary to write down significant things that happen, sometimes who they met, and if something or someone had an influence on their life.

I know I used to keep one that detailed the stories I was writing, or hoped to write one day, with progress, characters, plot lines and generally how the day worked out.

When I found that I did not have an hour to spare in the day to write it up, it went by the wayside. I used to have a series of diaries for about ten years, back in the old days when time was not at a premium, but they seemed to have got lost in the moves from before to just after I got married, and yes, became a father and lost all sense of time and perspective.

But..

The journal.

Yes, I have one, or perhaps I should say I have about five or six, one for each project I’m currently working on, and they quite often get an update at the end of the day. With children grown up and grandchildren almost past their teens, and in retirement, I have been able to go back to where I started 50 years ago.

If you want an opinion, start and maintain a journal. It helps.

Days 155 and 156

Writing exercise – find new ways of using the words, late, silent, ugly, traditional, and extra and incorporate them all in a novel way…

….

I could have said I was late.  I could, but I didn’t.  I could have said I forgot, and that would have been the truth, but what was the point of telling them what they already knew?

I said I was held up by traffic, which, as everyone knew for that time of day at Trafalgar Square, was a given

They asked why I chose that time of day when I knew what the traffic was like, and I said it suited my mother, which it did, and no one was going to argue with that.

She was the one at the head of the table and looked very severe.  Come to think of it, she was always looking very severe.

The only time I’d seen her smile was the day my father died.  He left everything to her.  I’d smile to if it happened to me.

“Now that we,” with an especially withering glare in my direction, fortunately at the other end of a long boardroom table, “are all here, shall we begin?”

Depending on her mood, it could last five minutes or five hours.  Judging by the phone call I got at seven minutes past five this morning, it might last a week.

It was only three words long.  “The game’s afoot.”

I tracked down the meaning, one of several other reasons I was so tardy, to Sherlock Holmes, an expression he used when a new case presented itself.

I didn’t get the inference. My mother thought I would be better off learning Latin than English Literature.

“How is the lavender case?”  Her eyes roamed around the table and stopped on the rather fearful Alex, an intern who had finally got her first case.

I convinced Mother she was ready.  I might have made a mistake.

“There has been no communication with the proprietors of the lavender factory, so I went down to Dorchester to get a first-hand response.  The factory is closed, and a ‘For Sale’ sign is on the door.”

This was relayed in a somewhat halting a week voice, brought on by my mother’s intimidating glare.

What she meant to say but wouldn’t was, there was a collective silence from everyone from the top to the bottom.

Silence would not have done in this case.  My mother doesn’t like any form of silence.

“There were a hundred and fifty people in that factory.  Are you saying an alien spaceship beamed them up and took them away?”

My mother could be scathing using what little humour she had.

And Alex could have said, ‘Yes, that’s exactly what happened’, but she didn’t.  She did say, “I found an open door at the rear of the premises, went up to the offices, and got a recent staff listing.  Interviews begin tomorrow.”

“Very good, Alex.  Just try to he a bit more assertive.”

Exactly what I told her.

“Next.”  Her eyes went around the table and stopped at William.  “How is the Ferg case proceeding?”

The Ferg case was one where an employer’s representative had maligned an employee on the grounds of their appearance.

It could be said they had called her ugly, and because beauty was a necessity in the promotion of their product, the fact that our client had suffered disfigurement in an accident, caused by employer negligence, we were suing said employer.

“They are willing to pay out 450,000 pounds in compensation.  The papers will be signed next week.”

“Excellent work.”

It was indeed our fee would be big, very big.  At least the client will be getting more than the original offer of 20,000 pounds.

“Next,” the eyes travelled the circumference of the table and landed on Wendy. 

Wendy was my favourite, the one who least noticed me and who was more focused on a career than anything else. 

She said so the first day we were introduced, and I decided to forget about her.  I think I realised soon enough that because I was the boss’s son, I was not someone to get involved with, and to be honest, I agreed with them.

“As I understand it, you need more resources.”

I saw the memo.  She wanted one extra investigator, but when approaching someone like my mother, who was against ‘throwing a pile of people into a project just to fall over each other’, asking for help was the same as admitting defeat.

Hence, the verbosity around using the word resources.  It was clever.

“Sam can help you if and when he’s free.”

Sam was me.  She never offered my services to anyone, so what was she up to?

Wendy looked at me and smiled.

I got the distinct impression my body was going to be found washed up in the lower reaches of the Thames, if not tomorrow, the next day.

“Any other business?”

Everyone knew better than to say there was.

“I have just one item.  This business was built on a solid foundation of hard work and getting results.  My husband, the late Mr Forster, his father, and his father before him set the standards, the methodology, and the systems that drive us towards the objective of being the best of the best.  Please remember that as you all go about your business.”

She stood, took a last look around the faces of the company, then left.

What she failed to say was that we had traditions, that we were a traditional company.  She, like my father, hated change, but only change was going to save us.

The trouble was, I did not dare tell her.

Then I realised the room was empty and Wendy was standing next to me.

“Sam.”

I said nothing.  She had that ability to turn me into a gibbering idiot.

“Can you drop by my office in an hour.  I have a job I would like you to do.”

“Sure.  In an hour.”

“Yes.  See you then.”

After she left the room, I sighed.  I think I knew what my mother meant with her enigmatic three words.  She knew I liked Wendy.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025

Days 155 and 156

Writing exercise – find new ways of using the words, late, silent, ugly, traditional, and extra and incorporate them all in a novel way…

….

I could have said I was late.  I could, but I didn’t.  I could have said I forgot, and that would have been the truth, but what was the point of telling them what they already knew?

I said I was held up by traffic, which, as everyone knew for that time of day at Trafalgar Square, was a given

They asked why I chose that time of day when I knew what the traffic was like, and I said it suited my mother, which it did, and no one was going to argue with that.

She was the one at the head of the table and looked very severe.  Come to think of it, she was always looking very severe.

The only time I’d seen her smile was the day my father died.  He left everything to her.  I’d smile to if it happened to me.

“Now that we,” with an especially withering glare in my direction, fortunately at the other end of a long boardroom table, “are all here, shall we begin?”

Depending on her mood, it could last five minutes or five hours.  Judging by the phone call I got at seven minutes past five this morning, it might last a week.

It was only three words long.  “The game’s afoot.”

I tracked down the meaning, one of several other reasons I was so tardy, to Sherlock Holmes, an expression he used when a new case presented itself.

I didn’t get the inference. My mother thought I would be better off learning Latin than English Literature.

“How is the lavender case?”  Her eyes roamed around the table and stopped on the rather fearful Alex, an intern who had finally got her first case.

I convinced Mother she was ready.  I might have made a mistake.

“There has been no communication with the proprietors of the lavender factory, so I went down to Dorchester to get a first-hand response.  The factory is closed, and a ‘For Sale’ sign is on the door.”

This was relayed in a somewhat halting a week voice, brought on by my mother’s intimidating glare.

What she meant to say but wouldn’t was, there was a collective silence from everyone from the top to the bottom.

Silence would not have done in this case.  My mother doesn’t like any form of silence.

“There were a hundred and fifty people in that factory.  Are you saying an alien spaceship beamed them up and took them away?”

My mother could be scathing using what little humour she had.

And Alex could have said, ‘Yes, that’s exactly what happened’, but she didn’t.  She did say, “I found an open door at the rear of the premises, went up to the offices, and got a recent staff listing.  Interviews begin tomorrow.”

“Very good, Alex.  Just try to he a bit more assertive.”

Exactly what I told her.

“Next.”  Her eyes went around the table and stopped at William.  “How is the Ferg case proceeding?”

The Ferg case was one where an employer’s representative had maligned an employee on the grounds of their appearance.

It could be said they had called her ugly, and because beauty was a necessity in the promotion of their product, the fact that our client had suffered disfigurement in an accident, caused by employer negligence, we were suing said employer.

“They are willing to pay out 450,000 pounds in compensation.  The papers will be signed next week.”

“Excellent work.”

It was indeed our fee would be big, very big.  At least the client will be getting more than the original offer of 20,000 pounds.

“Next,” the eyes travelled the circumference of the table and landed on Wendy. 

Wendy was my favourite, the one who least noticed me and who was more focused on a career than anything else. 

She said so the first day we were introduced, and I decided to forget about her.  I think I realised soon enough that because I was the boss’s son, I was not someone to get involved with, and to be honest, I agreed with them.

“As I understand it, you need more resources.”

I saw the memo.  She wanted one extra investigator, but when approaching someone like my mother, who was against ‘throwing a pile of people into a project just to fall over each other’, asking for help was the same as admitting defeat.

Hence, the verbosity around using the word resources.  It was clever.

“Sam can help you if and when he’s free.”

Sam was me.  She never offered my services to anyone, so what was she up to?

Wendy looked at me and smiled.

I got the distinct impression my body was going to be found washed up in the lower reaches of the Thames, if not tomorrow, the next day.

“Any other business?”

Everyone knew better than to say there was.

“I have just one item.  This business was built on a solid foundation of hard work and getting results.  My husband, the late Mr Forster, his father, and his father before him set the standards, the methodology, and the systems that drive us towards the objective of being the best of the best.  Please remember that as you all go about your business.”

She stood, took a last look around the faces of the company, then left.

What she failed to say was that we had traditions, that we were a traditional company.  She, like my father, hated change, but only change was going to save us.

The trouble was, I did not dare tell her.

Then I realised the room was empty and Wendy was standing next to me.

“Sam.”

I said nothing.  She had that ability to turn me into a gibbering idiot.

“Can you drop by my office in an hour.  I have a job I would like you to do.”

“Sure.  In an hour.”

“Yes.  See you then.”

After she left the room, I sighed.  I think I knew what my mother meant with her enigmatic three words.  She knew I liked Wendy.

…

©  Charles Heath 2025

More about my story

Sometimes it’s not so much about the main characters, it’s the extras, any one of which could steal the show…

…

In every story, TV series, and movie, there is always a character who sometimes inadvertently steals the show, or at the very least, every scene he or she is in.

It could be a cute dog.  I’ve seen a few of those.

I had a cat, his name was Chester, and he was a proverbial pain in the butt.  I still write him into stories because his antics were high jinks.  He could look at you, and you would swear you knew exactly what he was thinking, and it wasn’t complimentary.

Every now and then, I get the chance to add a character, generally someone I knew or saw, a cameo.

In this story, it’s the woman in white, though she gets to play a genuine role in the end, all the way through, she crops up at the least expected time to add a little humour and distraction for the main protagonist.

Just like the Inspector, Delacrat.  He doesn’t need to be there all the time; he just needs to be on the mind of the protagonist, making sure that he keeps his mind on the job.  A few mind games along the way help.

Then there’s Fitzherbert, an aver the top politician, not a man who has the refinement and learning of a university student, but a rough and tumble ex-union organiser who is more at home making noise rather than using diplomacy.

We have, in Australia, a comedian who died recently, but had created as one of the many caricatures of gregarious quintessential Australian characters, named Sir Les Patterson.  He was, to my mind, horrible, but he was more life-like than anyone could imagine.  That was Fitzherbert.

There are others, and they might get a mention later on.

More about my story

Sometimes it’s not so much about the main characters, it’s the extras, any one of which could steal the show…

…

In every story, TV series, and movie, there is always a character who sometimes inadvertently steals the show, or at the very least, every scene he or she is in.

It could be a cute dog.  I’ve seen a few of those.

I had a cat, his name was Chester, and he was a proverbial pain in the butt.  I still write him into stories because his antics were high jinks.  He could look at you, and you would swear you knew exactly what he was thinking, and it wasn’t complimentary.

Every now and then, I get the chance to add a character, generally someone I knew or saw, a cameo.

In this story, it’s the woman in white, though she gets to play a genuine role in the end, all the way through, she crops up at the least expected time to add a little humour and distraction for the main protagonist.

Just like the Inspector, Delacrat.  He doesn’t need to be there all the time; he just needs to be on the mind of the protagonist, making sure that he keeps his mind on the job.  A few mind games along the way help.

Then there’s Fitzherbert, an aver the top politician, not a man who has the refinement and learning of a university student, but a rough and tumble ex-union organiser who is more at home making noise rather than using diplomacy.

We have, in Australia, a comedian who died recently, but had created as one of the many caricatures of gregarious quintessential Australian characters, named Sir Les Patterson.  He was, to my mind, horrible, but he was more life-like than anyone could imagine.  That was Fitzherbert.

There are others, and they might get a mention later on.

Day 164

Writing exercise – who, what, where, when, and why?

…

There’s the hell of it. When the planets line up, it’s easy, but like mathematical equations, when you’re missing one basic element, a solution can be as far away as the moon, or, in this case, Pluto.

It was how this story stacked up, in the end, because it was not so much the clues, but those interpreting the clues and a very clever criminal that no one would ever have picked on first sight.

So much so that even when the perpetrator confessed, nobody believed them.

But…

I’m getting ahead of myself.

The day started like any other, sitting in the middle of the bull pen with twenty other journalists looking for that story that was going to win them a Pulitzer prize.

Of course, my chances were less than zero.  I’d let the story of the century slip through my fingers because I took a humanitarian stand to save the victim.  Someone else broke the story, and it was given a lecture and one more chance.

Then…

Like all investigations, great or small, it starts with the boss coming out of his office and yelling out a name.

“Curruthers?”

It was usually a raised voice so it could pierce through the hubbub of the pit, sometimes quiet because of the lack of participants, but today it was a full house, making it impossible to hear yourself think.

Today, he yelled, and instantly, the noise stopped.

Someone was for it, and that someone was Curruthers.

That someone was me.

I stood, but being five feet, something didn’t make much difference.

“Sir?”

“My office, now.”

Never keep an angry man waiting.  Since the boss was always angry, I all but ran.

“Shut the door.”

There was a difference between it and really for it.  The closed door…

I waited for the bollocking. I could see he was trying to find the words…

“The Spenser Building, a body in the penthouse, found by the Russian maid, stabbed a dozen, maybe more times, cops haven’t ruled out the lover, still there, blood on his hands, fresh, she was still alive when the maid found her, now deceased.  This has got sensation written all over it.  Daniels is the detective. You and her…get on it now.”

“Sir.”

I was going to say Detective Louisa Daniels and I had split up a year ago, but that would have ensured someone else got the story.  This was too good to pass up.

I was out the door before he could change his mind.

…

I arrived breathlessly at the front entrance to the Spenser Building at the same time as Detective Louisa Daniels, with her usual partner in crime, Detective Burns.  He had a first name, Oliver, but no one used it.

She was walking towards the front entrance where Gary, the front doorman, was stationed.  Ropes had been erected, and the police were there keeping the public back.

I was the public, in that moment, until Gary saw me arguing with a police officer and came over.  It stopped Louisa, who also turned to see what the commotion was about.

“He lives here, officer.”

The officer let it go and went back to his station.

I thanked him, and we headed back to the door.  Louisa stepped in front of me.  “Joseph.  I forgot you live here.”

“You’re here for the Eleanor Spencer murder.”

“Yes.”

Detective Burns came over. “Joseph? What are you doing here?”

“The editor sent me over to cover the story.”

“There’s nothing to cover.  We just got here,” he said.

“You can’t be here, Joe,” Louisa said.  “I thought you were covering the obits.  You certainly added a bit of life to their stories.”

She never did give me much credit as a journalist, even when I did as she’d asked and all but ruined my career.  It was basically the reason we broke up.

“I can help with this case.”

Detective Burns didn’t like me.  He had never liked me and had warned Louisa that I would betray her confidence.  I didn’t, but I suspected he had to another reporter, a rival reporter working for another newspaper.  He glared at me, “You’re a hack, Bateman.”

I wondered if Louisa remembered what I had told her about why I was living in the Spenser Building.  It was a long time ago, and she had always been preoccupied with becoming the best detective in the police department.

A measure of that was proved by her assignment to such a high-profile case.

She turned to Burns, “You go up and find out where forensics are, and if the medical examiner is on site.”

“You don’t think this fool knows anything?”

“Go.  I’ll be there directly.”  Back to me, she said, as we watched him go through the front entrance, “He thinks you told another reporter, but I knew Jaimie was playing him.  I think you did, too, but I didn’t believe for a minute it was you. There was nothing I could do.  I’m sorry.  In more ways than one.  Walk with me.”

We went into the building, heading for the elevator lobby.

If I remember correctly, and it was a moment when we were both a lot tipsy, a woman came to the front door, invited you to a gallery showing or some such, and when I asked who it was, you said it was your mother.”

“I might have said something silly like that.”

“I also remember seeing her in a magazine a week later with you in the background, and it was our victim, Mrs Spenser.  I also dismissed what you said because your name was Bateman, not Spenser.”

“That is true.”

“If you are who you say you are, then how did you get the name Bateman?”

“My adoptive parents, the Batemans.

“But if you are her child, how?”

“Born to a mother who got pregnant a year before her first marriage, out of wedlock, and sent to a foster home.  She is my mother.  Later, she spent a fortune to find me, then kept our secret.  However, that’s just grist to the mill.  You need to know that I was one of three people to see her alive.  There was a dinner party with eight guests, and when I left, there was only one other person, the lover.  I have information and want to help.”

“Is your apartment the same as before?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will look at the crime scene and then come and see you.  It will be strictly off the record.  OK. Oh, and if you killed her, you will feel the full weight of my wrath.”

“Fine.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025

Day 164

Writing exercise – who, what, where, when, and why?

…

There’s the hell of it. When the planets line up, it’s easy, but like mathematical equations, when you’re missing one basic element, a solution can be as far away as the moon, or, in this case, Pluto.

It was how this story stacked up, in the end, because it was not so much the clues, but those interpreting the clues and a very clever criminal that no one would ever have picked on first sight.

So much so that even when the perpetrator confessed, nobody believed them.

But…

I’m getting ahead of myself.

The day started like any other, sitting in the middle of the bull pen with twenty other journalists looking for that story that was going to win them a Pulitzer prize.

Of course, my chances were less than zero.  I’d let the story of the century slip through my fingers because I took a humanitarian stand to save the victim.  Someone else broke the story, and it was given a lecture and one more chance.

Then…

Like all investigations, great or small, it starts with the boss coming out of his office and yelling out a name.

“Curruthers?”

It was usually a raised voice so it could pierce through the hubbub of the pit, sometimes quiet because of the lack of participants, but today it was a full house, making it impossible to hear yourself think.

Today, he yelled, and instantly, the noise stopped.

Someone was for it, and that someone was Curruthers.

That someone was me.

I stood, but being five feet, something didn’t make much difference.

“Sir?”

“My office, now.”

Never keep an angry man waiting.  Since the boss was always angry, I all but ran.

“Shut the door.”

There was a difference between it and really for it.  The closed door…

I waited for the bollocking. I could see he was trying to find the words…

“The Spenser Building, a body in the penthouse, found by the Russian maid, stabbed a dozen, maybe more times, cops haven’t ruled out the lover, still there, blood on his hands, fresh, she was still alive when the maid found her, now deceased.  This has got sensation written all over it.  Daniels is the detective. You and her…get on it now.”

“Sir.”

I was going to say Detective Louisa Daniels and I had split up a year ago, but that would have ensured someone else got the story.  This was too good to pass up.

I was out the door before he could change his mind.

…

I arrived breathlessly at the front entrance to the Spenser Building at the same time as Detective Louisa Daniels, with her usual partner in crime, Detective Burns.  He had a first name, Oliver, but no one used it.

She was walking towards the front entrance where Gary, the front doorman, was stationed.  Ropes had been erected, and the police were there keeping the public back.

I was the public, in that moment, until Gary saw me arguing with a police officer and came over.  It stopped Louisa, who also turned to see what the commotion was about.

“He lives here, officer.”

The officer let it go and went back to his station.

I thanked him, and we headed back to the door.  Louisa stepped in front of me.  “Joseph.  I forgot you live here.”

“You’re here for the Eleanor Spencer murder.”

“Yes.”

Detective Burns came over. “Joseph? What are you doing here?”

“The editor sent me over to cover the story.”

“There’s nothing to cover.  We just got here,” he said.

“You can’t be here, Joe,” Louisa said.  “I thought you were covering the obits.  You certainly added a bit of life to their stories.”

She never did give me much credit as a journalist, even when I did as she’d asked and all but ruined my career.  It was basically the reason we broke up.

“I can help with this case.”

Detective Burns didn’t like me.  He had never liked me and had warned Louisa that I would betray her confidence.  I didn’t, but I suspected he had to another reporter, a rival reporter working for another newspaper.  He glared at me, “You’re a hack, Bateman.”

I wondered if Louisa remembered what I had told her about why I was living in the Spenser Building.  It was a long time ago, and she had always been preoccupied with becoming the best detective in the police department.

A measure of that was proved by her assignment to such a high-profile case.

She turned to Burns, “You go up and find out where forensics are, and if the medical examiner is on site.”

“You don’t think this fool knows anything?”

“Go.  I’ll be there directly.”  Back to me, she said, as we watched him go through the front entrance, “He thinks you told another reporter, but I knew Jaimie was playing him.  I think you did, too, but I didn’t believe for a minute it was you. There was nothing I could do.  I’m sorry.  In more ways than one.  Walk with me.”

We went into the building, heading for the elevator lobby.

If I remember correctly, and it was a moment when we were both a lot tipsy, a woman came to the front door, invited you to a gallery showing or some such, and when I asked who it was, you said it was your mother.”

“I might have said something silly like that.”

“I also remember seeing her in a magazine a week later with you in the background, and it was our victim, Mrs Spenser.  I also dismissed what you said because your name was Bateman, not Spenser.”

“That is true.”

“If you are who you say you are, then how did you get the name Bateman?”

“My adoptive parents, the Batemans.

“But if you are her child, how?”

“Born to a mother who got pregnant a year before her first marriage, out of wedlock, and sent to a foster home.  She is my mother.  Later, she spent a fortune to find me, then kept our secret.  However, that’s just grist to the mill.  You need to know that I was one of three people to see her alive.  There was a dinner party with eight guests, and when I left, there was only one other person, the lover.  I have information and want to help.”

“Is your apartment the same as before?”

“Yes.”

“Then I will look at the crime scene and then come and see you.  It will be strictly off the record.  OK. Oh, and if you killed her, you will feel the full weight of my wrath.”

“Fine.”

…

©  Charles Heath  2025