And this was a situation that he hadn’t considered, that she would not be pleased to see him. And not only that, was trying her hardest to get rid of him.
They talk and Henry has to wheedle the truth out of her, that the time is not right for her to leave yet, and that he must go. Once again she had presented yet another different persona, and Henry is confused as to her motives and their relationship.
The phone ringing interrupts their moment, Radly advising that they were about to get company.
Just enough time for Henry to say goodbye before he comes face to face with the Turk, who arrives unexpectedly at her front door.
The master of the house arrives, Michelle changes instantly into someone else, and the Turk makes Henry a proposition. He can walk out in one piece but never come back or see her again.
After he leaves the Turk and his favourite girl talk. She doesn’t believe a single word of the Turks, but it does reveal how much he will tolerate her.
He on the other hand does not trust her at all, not now that she has transformed, and off the drugs he supplies to keep his girls compliant. She is different, he has to admit, but he has bigger plans for her now. And sadly that will break their agreement.
After a fruitless search, Henry decides not to go home but stay in one of the more salubrious hotels nearby. The next day, refreshed, he has his eyes firmly on the prize.
Once the darkness sets in, they’re off to the address that Angie had given him the previous night. Expecting to see Michelle, instead, Henry discovers no one is at home, but an old lady who hears him knocking on the door tells him where the occupant works.
Another interestingly named establishment.
Which, when they go there, discover to be a cut above some they’d been to, and it’s back to the conversation with one of the girls, hoping to gain some information.
Only this girl, Diana, is a little trickier to deal with in that she does not let him escape without having to do the dance first. He asks his questions, gets oblique answers, and has an experience he will never forget.
Which, when they go there, discover to be a cut above some they’d been to, and it’s back to the conversation with one of the girls, hoping to gain some information.
Only this girl, Diana, is a little trickier to deal with in that she does not let him escape without having to do the dance first. He asks his questions, gets oblique answers, and has an experience he will never forget.
With a line almost crossed, Henry staggers back out into the heat of the night, wondering himself exactly what just happened, only to find Radly waiting with two other men.
The police, and none other than colleagues of Inspector Banner. It’s time for a visit to the police station.
This is where we get to learn a little bit more about Banner and his mission. Then a long chat with Henry about Michelle, the girl he is looking for, and how dangerous it is. Then, in the end, Banner gives him her address, one that is different from Angie’s, and asks Henry to deliver a message.
Then he is standing at the door and the girl herself is looking back at him.
I’m working on a novella which may boringly be called “Motive, Means and Opportunity” where I will present a chunk of information from which you if you want to, can become the armchair detective.
Here’s the first part, the so-called Motive
So, here’s the thing…
I said it. Not once, in the heat of the moment, but more than once, to several different people. I wanted James Burgman dead.
Why?
Because I knew he was the man sleeping with my wife, Wendy.
I’d long suspected she was having an affair, you know the signs, not where you expect her to be, making excuses where none were necessary if she was doing what she said she was, and disappearing for hours without an explanation.
And I knew James Burgman was an old boyfriend, a discovery that was made quite by accident. In fact, I followed her one night, not because I was suspicious, but worried for her safety.
That was where I saw her meet him with more than just a friendly handshake.
I had to say it made me feel gutted.
But would I kill him?
It was not worth the problems it would cause me to do so, and, when push came to shove, neither of them were worth it. I knew, even if he was out of the way, she would not stay with me.
That train had left the station about a year ago when our only son had been killed in a senseless road accident.
After a fruitless search, Henry decides not to go home but stay in one of the more salubrious hotels nearby. The next day, refreshed, he has his eyes firmly on the prize.
Once the darkness sets in, they’re off to the address that Angie had given him the previous night. Expecting to see Michelle, instead, Henry discovers no one is at home, but an old lady who hears him knocking on the door tells him where the occupant works.
Another interestingly named establishment.
Which, when they go there, discover to be a cut above some they’d been to, and it’s back to the conversation with one of the girls, hoping to gain some information.
Only this girl, Diana, is a little trickier to deal with in that she does not let him escape without having to do the dance first. He asks his questions, gets oblique answers, and has an experience he will never forget.
Which, when they go there, discover to be a cut above some they’d been to, and it’s back to the conversation with one of the girls, hoping to gain some information.
Only this girl, Diana, is a little trickier to deal with in that she does not let him escape without having to do the dance first. He asks his questions, gets oblique answers, and has an experience he will never forget.
With a line almost crossed, Henry staggers back out into the heat of the night, wondering himself exactly what just happened, only to find Radly waiting with two other men.
The police, and none other than colleagues of Inspector Banner. It’s time for a visit to the police station.
This is where we get to learn a little bit more about Banner and his mission. Then a long chat with Henry about Michelle, the girl he is looking for, and how dangerous it is. Then, in the end, Banner gives him her address, one that is different from Angie’s, and asks Henry to deliver a message.
Then he is standing at the door and the girl herself is looking back at him.
“Go to Newark airport, go to the United booking desk and give them your name. Take proof of identity. Pack for five days, light.”
It was going to be, supposedly, a magical mystery tour. I read in a travel magazine, that a company offered five-day inclusive trips to anywhere. You do not get the destination, just what to take. Then, just be prepared for anything.
I paid the money and waited, until last evening when the email came.
I was ready.
When I presented my credentials as requested, I found myself going to Venice, Italy, a place I had never been before.
When I looked it up, it said it took about 10 hours to get there with one stop in between. Enough time to read up on the many places to go and see, though according to the instructions, everything had been arranged in advance.
I could also take the time to brush up on my schoolboy Italian.
When I got off the plane at Marco Polo Airport, in Venice, it was mid-morning, but an hour or so was lost going through immigration and customs. A water taxi was waiting to take me to a hotel where I would receive further instructions. I was hoping it would be on or overlooking the Grand Canal.
At the airport, I wondered if there was going to be anyone else on this trip, or whether I would be doing it alone. I’d read sometimes likeminded people were put together for a shared experience.
We had to agree and then fill out an extensive profile so they could appropriately match people. Sometimes, people joined at different times along the way, you just never knew what was going to happen.
That random unpredictability was just what I needed having just gone through a breakup after a long period of peacefulness and stability, and frankly, I would not have chosen this type of tour if I had not.
It was a pleasant half hour or so winding our way across open, choppy, stretches of water, then through the canals, having paid the driver extra to take a long route. I’d not been to Venice before, but I had read about it, and while some of the negative comments were true, it didn’t diminish the place in my eyes.
And the hotel, on its own island overlooking the main canal, was stylish and elegant, and my room was exactly where I’d hoped it would be. I think I spent the next hour just looking out at the city, and the boats going by, like a freeway, a never-ending stream of traffic.
A knock on the door interrupted what might have been described as a dream, by one of the concierge staff delivering an envelope with my name on it.
The note said,
“Take the hotel Vaporetto to St Mark’s Square and go to the first restaurant on the left as you walk away from the Doges Palace. Your reservation is for table 38, at 20:30 hours..”
All meals were included, each dinner at a notable restaurant in the town or city you spent the night or nights. I had already taken the time to wander around St Mark’s and look at the shops, mostly high-end, except for one, a confectionary store, next to a souvenir store.
That was a pleasant few hours working out what I would take home for various family members.
I also noted the many little alleyways that led away from the square, and if I had time the next morning I might explore. A gondola ride was also on the bucket list.
When I arrived and announced myself, I was taken to table 38. I was not the first, another traveller, a woman about my age, mid-thirties was sitting, with a drink in front of her.
She observed my arrival and approach, and it was a little strange. It looked like this was going to be not a solo expedition. “Ace Adventurer?” she asked.
“Not so sure about Ace, but adventurous, maybe.”
“I know how you feel. I was not sure what to expect?”
“Beautiful scenery, great Italian food, hopefully, and good company to share it with.”
The waiter asked if I would like a drink, and I selected an Italian beer. This was going to be a beer, and wine odyssey. I was one of those when in Rome, types.
“You like to travel?” There was a brief, awkward silence, so she opened the conversation with what was a safe question.
“Yes. Though I didn’t get many opportunities before this, because of work, and my wife’s illness. She passed recently, and I figured it was time to get out of the house and do something positive.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
To me, the moment I said it, I sounded like a lame duck, and had to wonder why I did.”
After fifteen minutes the waiter returned with menus. It appears we were going to be the only two. Interesting concept.
Selecting items off the menu, we learnt about each other, that we could both read, and speak, after a fashion, Italian. Immediately it became a thing to only speak Italian from that point.
We liked the same food, and almost ordered the same items. We liked the same wine, but she did not drink beer.
She liked photography, but more professionally than me, and her camera was worth more than my car. Me, I was happy with my cell phone. We drove the same type of car, liked to go to the same places, and she too had suffered a recent bereavement.
It was as if the tour company had found me a perfect match.
We were staying in different hotels and parted company at the restaurant. I was not going to suggest we wander along the canal front, she seemed tired. We were both staying, having not received the next instructions, so we left it with a perhaps we might see each other again in the morning.
If it was meant to be.
It wasn’t one of those I could have danced all night moments, but it was different, and I was glad not to be wallowing like I would have if I had not made an effort to get away. It certainly made the visit to Venice a highlight.
The next morning there was an envelope under the door, I was thinking it was a note from the hotel about checking out, but instead, it was a questionnaire, short and to the point.
“Would you prefer, a) continue alone, b) continue with Ms Bainford, or c) someone else?”
I selected b) but added a provision, only if she wished to continue with me, and then took it back to reception.
After a leisurely breakfast, I caught the Vaporetto to the other side of the canal, near a church, and then wandered back towards St Marks, had pizza for lunch in a quaint little restaurant outside yet another church, before exploring one of the alleyways going off the square, reportedly leading to the train station.
It was not far from the station I came across Lesley sitting at a café having coffee and watching the world go past. She smiled when she saw me.
“Lost?” she asked when I sat down.
‘No, well, at least I don’t think I am. You see a railway station around here?”
She pointed further along the lane. “That way. I think. I have been lost, but fortunately, I found a nice resident who knew the way. Divine coffee, you should get a cup.”
I did.
We both watched the world go by in companionable silence, until she asked, “Do you know where you’re going next?”
“No. I was surprised I was not moving on today.”
“Perhaps they thought we needed to soak in the aesthetic beauty Venice has to offer. Pity it’s not when the Carnival of Venice is on, dressing up and wearing a mask. It sounds like fun.”
“You could always come back. When is it?”
“February. I might just do that, it’s not as if I have anything or anyone that prevents me from doing anything.”
She stood and held out her hand. “Shall we roam aimlessly and soak in the aesthetic beauty? Let the alleys take us where they may.”
I took her hand in mine and stood. “Why not?”
The afternoon was a blur, dinner sublime, parting sad.
We both know instinctively that this could and probably would end, and the spell was broken when we parted, again at the restaurant. There were words to be said, but it was too soon, and enough ambiguity to part almost content, but with that little longing that it might continue.
I found an envelope on the desk in my room when I returned.
“Your next stop will be Florence, a city that is waiting for you to explore. Take the Italo Treno from Venice station to Florence, the ticket, with a seat assignment, is enclosed. You are booked at the Hotel Brunelleschi. Enjoy!”
It made no mention of travelling companions or anything else, but then, it was just my travel arrangements.
I checked out the flowing morning and took a water taxi to the railway station. I was glad I was travelling light, the station was crowded and it took a few minutes to find the train.
It was one of my hobbies, the methods of travel, whether it was trains, planes, trams, ships, ferries, or boats, all were fascinating in their own way.
This was a bullet train, similar to those in France, Japan, and China.
It was a relief to have a booked seat and business class. I expected no less.
I found the carriage and then the compartment. And then a surprise.
Lesley.
“Florence?” she asked.
“Florence. Did you …”
“Tick a certain box. I did. Please, sit. We have much to talk about.”
This is the moon, unexpectedly observable in the late afternoon.
For me, the moon provided inspiration for an episodic story I have entitled, for now, ‘I always wanted to see the planets’.
It’s about a freighter captain who gets a gig as First Officer on an exploratory starship, who by a series of inexplicable events gets promoted to captain, and has to navigate not only the outer reaches of space, but new species.
But in the back of my mind there is that expression ‘shoot for the moon’, which could mean almost anything.
It could mean going for the unobtainable, whether it be a job, or the partner of your dreams. Failing can be heartbreak. Success might mean you’d be ‘over the moon’.
Them there’s travelling to moon, perhaps the next logical step for regular people, heading off the spend a week on a moon base hotel. I’m not sure what we would see out there in space; Perhaps a UFO?
Fictionalised, a moon base might just be the meeting place for various species, and being the mystery writer I am, what if there was a murder?
“Go to Newark airport, go to the United booking desk and give them your name. Take proof of identity. Pack for five days, light.”
It was going to be, supposedly, a magical mystery tour. I read in a travel magazine, that a company offered five-day inclusive trips to anywhere. You do not get the destination, just what to take. Then, just be prepared for anything.
I paid the money and waited, until last evening when the email came.
I was ready.
When I presented my credentials as requested, I found myself going to Venice, Italy, a place I had never been before.
When I looked it up, it said it took about 10 hours to get there with one stop in between. Enough time to read up on the many places to go and see, though according to the instructions, everything had been arranged in advance.
I could also take the time to brush up on my schoolboy Italian.
When I got off the plane at Marco Polo Airport, in Venice, it was mid-morning, but an hour or so was lost going through immigration and customs. A water taxi was waiting to take me to a hotel where I would receive further instructions. I was hoping it would be on or overlooking the Grand Canal.
At the airport, I wondered if there was going to be anyone else on this trip, or whether I would be doing it alone. I’d read sometimes likeminded people were put together for a shared experience.
We had to agree and then fill out an extensive profile so they could appropriately match people. Sometimes, people joined at different times along the way, you just never knew what was going to happen.
That random unpredictability was just what I needed having just gone through a breakup after a long period of peacefulness and stability, and frankly, I would not have chosen this type of tour if I had not.
It was a pleasant half hour or so winding our way across open, choppy, stretches of water, then through the canals, having paid the driver extra to take a long route. I’d not been to Venice before, but I had read about it, and while some of the negative comments were true, it didn’t diminish the place in my eyes.
And the hotel, on its own island overlooking the main canal, was stylish and elegant, and my room was exactly where I’d hoped it would be. I think I spent the next hour just looking out at the city, and the boats going by, like a freeway, a never-ending stream of traffic.
A knock on the door interrupted what might have been described as a dream, by one of the concierge staff delivering an envelope with my name on it.
The note said,
“Take the hotel Vaporetto to St Mark’s Square and go to the first restaurant on the left as you walk away from the Doges Palace. Your reservation is for table 38, at 20:30 hours..”
All meals were included, each dinner at a notable restaurant in the town or city you spent the night or nights. I had already taken the time to wander around St Mark’s and look at the shops, mostly high-end, except for one, a confectionary store, next to a souvenir store.
That was a pleasant few hours working out what I would take home for various family members.
I also noted the many little alleyways that led away from the square, and if I had time the next morning I might explore. A gondola ride was also on the bucket list.
When I arrived and announced myself, I was taken to table 38. I was not the first, another traveller, a woman about my age, mid-thirties was sitting, with a drink in front of her.
She observed my arrival and approach, and it was a little strange. It looked like this was going to be not a solo expedition. “Ace Adventurer?” she asked.
“Not so sure about Ace, but adventurous, maybe.”
“I know how you feel. I was not sure what to expect?”
“Beautiful scenery, great Italian food, hopefully, and good company to share it with.”
The waiter asked if I would like a drink, and I selected an Italian beer. This was going to be a beer, and wine odyssey. I was one of those when in Rome, types.
“You like to travel?” There was a brief, awkward silence, so she opened the conversation with what was a safe question.
“Yes. Though I didn’t get many opportunities before this, because of work, and my wife’s illness. She passed recently, and I figured it was time to get out of the house and do something positive.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
To me, the moment I said it, I sounded like a lame duck, and had to wonder why I did.”
After fifteen minutes the waiter returned with menus. It appears we were going to be the only two. Interesting concept.
Selecting items off the menu, we learnt about each other, that we could both read, and speak, after a fashion, Italian. Immediately it became a thing to only speak Italian from that point.
We liked the same food, and almost ordered the same items. We liked the same wine, but she did not drink beer.
She liked photography, but more professionally than me, and her camera was worth more than my car. Me, I was happy with my cell phone. We drove the same type of car, liked to go to the same places, and she too had suffered a recent bereavement.
It was as if the tour company had found me a perfect match.
We were staying in different hotels and parted company at the restaurant. I was not going to suggest we wander along the canal front, she seemed tired. We were both staying, having not received the next instructions, so we left it with a perhaps we might see each other again in the morning.
If it was meant to be.
It wasn’t one of those I could have danced all night moments, but it was different, and I was glad not to be wallowing like I would have if I had not made an effort to get away. It certainly made the visit to Venice a highlight.
The next morning there was an envelope under the door, I was thinking it was a note from the hotel about checking out, but instead, it was a questionnaire, short and to the point.
“Would you prefer, a) continue alone, b) continue with Ms Bainford, or c) someone else?”
I selected b) but added a provision, only if she wished to continue with me, and then took it back to reception.
After a leisurely breakfast, I caught the Vaporetto to the other side of the canal, near a church, and then wandered back towards St Marks, had pizza for lunch in a quaint little restaurant outside yet another church, before exploring one of the alleyways going off the square, reportedly leading to the train station.
It was not far from the station I came across Lesley sitting at a café having coffee and watching the world go past. She smiled when she saw me.
“Lost?” she asked when I sat down.
‘No, well, at least I don’t think I am. You see a railway station around here?”
She pointed further along the lane. “That way. I think. I have been lost, but fortunately, I found a nice resident who knew the way. Divine coffee, you should get a cup.”
I did.
We both watched the world go by in companionable silence, until she asked, “Do you know where you’re going next?”
“No. I was surprised I was not moving on today.”
“Perhaps they thought we needed to soak in the aesthetic beauty Venice has to offer. Pity it’s not when the Carnival of Venice is on, dressing up and wearing a mask. It sounds like fun.”
“You could always come back. When is it?”
“February. I might just do that, it’s not as if I have anything or anyone that prevents me from doing anything.”
She stood and held out her hand. “Shall we roam aimlessly and soak in the aesthetic beauty? Let the alleys take us where they may.”
I took her hand in mine and stood. “Why not?”
The afternoon was a blur, dinner sublime, parting sad.
We both know instinctively that this could and probably would end, and the spell was broken when we parted, again at the restaurant. There were words to be said, but it was too soon, and enough ambiguity to part almost content, but with that little longing that it might continue.
I found an envelope on the desk in my room when I returned.
“Your next stop will be Florence, a city that is waiting for you to explore. Take the Italo Treno from Venice station to Florence, the ticket, with a seat assignment, is enclosed. You are booked at the Hotel Brunelleschi. Enjoy!”
It made no mention of travelling companions or anything else, but then, it was just my travel arrangements.
I checked out the flowing morning and took a water taxi to the railway station. I was glad I was travelling light, the station was crowded and it took a few minutes to find the train.
It was one of my hobbies, the methods of travel, whether it was trains, planes, trams, ships, ferries, or boats, all were fascinating in their own way.
This was a bullet train, similar to those in France, Japan, and China.
It was a relief to have a booked seat and business class. I expected no less.
I found the carriage and then the compartment. And then a surprise.
Lesley.
“Florence?” she asked.
“Florence. Did you …”
“Tick a certain box. I did. Please, sit. We have much to talk about.”
After a solid few hours of sleuthing and getting an up close and almost intimate look at the lives of people Henry would never have got to meet in his lifetime, he came away disillusioned and disappointed that they were no further advanced in the quest.
Time out, and a drive to the beach to take in some cooler surroundings and shut away all they’d seen and heard.
Even Radly had to admit he had never scratched the surface, only visiting and thinking nothing of those working there nor of their plight, if it indeed was to be seen that way, or motivation.
There they get a solid break.
Henry sees Michelle with a friend, in a car, purely by accident. They had exchanged words with a group of boys.
From there it was surveillance and an amateurish attempt at following them in the hope it would leave back to where she lived.
Of course, they’re not up to the task and almost lose her several times, and after she drops off the other girl, they do lose her.
That means going back to the girl she dropped off and asking some pertinent questions. The trouble is, by the time Henry gets to her, she is almost lost to drugs, but gets an address.
It was a wild and stormy morning half-light half dark with roiling seas around us.
If anyone had seen us from the shore, they’d say we were stark staring mad.
We were.
Trying to come ashore in the sort of weather that had wrecked many a ship along this stretch of coast. What would be one more boat among many at the bottom of the sea?
We were too busy trying to stay alive to be sick, and I felt very, very ill.
At the wheel Christina was looking very resolute, fighting the ocean trying to turn the rudder against her ministrations.
I was keeping the sails at the bare minimum, and at least the wind was taking us ashore and not out into the ocean and where the huge waves were waiting. Not that going ashore was any more attractive given the rocks alternately submerged and exposed.
I’d just repaired a snapped rope and got the sail back into position after nearly being decapitated when it broke free.
“There it is.” I could just barely hear her before the wind snatched the words away.
I followed her outstretched arm to see a break in the white water crashing on the rocks, a narrow passage that led to calmer water and a remote landing place.
This we had been told was good weather. I’d hate to see what was ‘the bad’.
We rose up and slid down the waves hoping when we came up again, we’d be heading in the right direction.
Luckily, we were.
Christina had sold the voyage as a sailor’s dream, to cross the Atlantic at what was supposed to be the calmest time of the year.
The fact that no time of the year was calm was carefully omitted from the sales pitch, but I had to admit I’d had worse weather heading north from New York to Nantucket.
The real selling point was the fact we would not advertise our departure nor our arrival, a definite plus in remaining anonymous when anonymity was a must.
She had been right to suggest we leave, with two more attempts on our lives, a car bomb, and a long-range sniper. Someone seriously wanted us dead, or if not the two of us, me.
Now it was a matter of hoping the sea didn’t finish was someone else started.
On the other side of the reef the weather hadn’t changed, the skies were still very dark and the rain was sheeting down, but the movement of the boat had settled, and we were gliding across almost still waters.
I’d heard about Scotland’s bleak weather, and this was everything one could expect. It could only get better.
I leaned against the stern rail just behind her, now more relaxed, watching the rain pouring off the wet weather gear she was wearing. On top of the endless layers to keep out the intense cold, she looked more like Santa than the woman who, barely a week before, had turned every head in the room at her father’s birthday bash.
It made me wonder why she was willing to go through what we had to get here. It was no secret she detested what her father represented, and there was no doubt he wasn’t happy about her living with a policeman, yet willing to accept his help when trouble came knocking.
There was no doubting that bond between them, despite the circumstances.
The coastline stretched before us, as did the Cove, and somewhere there a sea cave, a place to hide the boat. It was the stuff of legends, that Cove, reputedly to have been a lair for pirates, whiskey smugglers, and Scottish patriots hiding from the British back in the days of Bonnie Prince Charlie.
“Are you feeling like the Vikings?” I said the first time I could hear my own voice above the weather.
“Who?”
“The Vikings? They were reputed to come ashore, do some pillaging, then go.”
“We’re not here to pillage, as you call it.”
“No, but you can just imagine it. I doubt this shoreline has changed much in a thousand or so years.”
“Except for the plastic washed ashore.”
I didn’t have to see her face to register the disdain, it was in her tone. She was a loud and passionate advocate for the environment, sometimes the lone voice in the crowd.
Whereas once I just threw the empty plastic bottles overboard, she insisted we collect them and dispose of them properly.
I shrugged. Our minuscule efforts were not going to change the world.
I moved to stand next to her, putting my hand on hers on the wheel. I changed the subject. “That was some pretty good navigation.”
She turned to look at me. She was tired, if not exhausted. “Where else would you want to be?”
I hadn’t realised she loved being in a boat, sailing. It was her other world; one I hadn’t known about. The boat we were on was hers, one of three.
It was just one of several revelations that I learned in the last week.
That she owned and ran a very successful legitimate internet business.
That she owned properties in five different countries, including the one we were heading to now.
That she collected vintage cars and had a museum.
That she shunned the limelight and preferred to blend in as just another ordinary person. I’d only seen her once in elegant clothes, her usual garb rarely changed from workout gear or simply jeans and polo shirts.
It made it all that more difficult for me to understand why she would be interested in me, and more so the potential harm I could do on the other side of the law.
Her father was certainly icy about the relationship, and a few of the others at the birthday bash had intimated that my ongoing relationship with her would cause an early demise.
Until her father put an end to it.
“Do you really own all this?” I waved my hand across the shoreline.
“Yes. As you say, it’s one of the few places on this earth that has not changed in the last thousand years.”
We had reached the edge of the Cove and as she rounded the point we could see the cave, actually one of six or seven though most were relatively shallow.
But that was not only what could be seen.
There were two people waiting by the cave, and when I looked at them through the binoculars, I could see they were not a welcoming committee.
“Are you expecting anyone to greet us on arrival?”
“No. I didn’t tell anyone but you we would be coming here.”
“Then make a detour, out of the sight line, and drop me off. Anchor there if you can, and I’ll go ask them. Politely, of course.”
Ten minutes later I was about to go over the side, and wade ashore. She handed me a gun, with a suppressor. “Just in case they don’t understand the word polite.”
So much for a new start in what we thought was going to be obscurity.
The search goes on. The names are more exotics, the décor sometimes outrageous, and the girls from interesting to not so interesting.
It certainly isn’t cheap, but Radly said it wouldn’t be.
All of the women in charge either knew Radly, or the Turk, some with displeasure, others, well maybe it was all displeasure. They were forcibly taken over, and it would make a good subplot to have them all simmering over the take-back plan.
Perhaps that could be part of the end. It just means that Michelle has to take care of him, and by now I’ve decided that she will be if she can get the help and the means.
Originally, I considered a simple solution, Henry comes along, finds her, and they escape after rescuing two of her friends, and helping bring about the Turk’s downfall.
It just occurred to me that there should be a subplot involving police detectives, coming at the problem from a different aspect, and the two should meet.
Oops, that means a bit of backtracking and a small rewrite.
Now, she’s going to take the Turk and Felix down.
It might also mean I have to go back to the start, and flesh out a little more of Micelle’s background, leading up to, and why she ended up in Morganville.
Ugh!
Oh, and handing out a photo of her might just raise a little unwanted attention. We shall see…
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 