This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.
Coming soon!
Tag: Blog
“One Last Look”, nothing is what it seems
A single event can have enormous consequences.
A single event driven by fate, after Ben told his wife Charlotte he would be late home one night, he left early, and by chance discovers his wife having dinner in their favourite restaurant with another man.
A single event where it could be said Ben was in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Who was this man? Why was she having dinner with him?
A simple truth to explain the single event was all Ben required. Instead, Charlotte told him a lie.
A single event that forces Ben to question everything he thought he knew about his wife, and the people who are around her.
After a near-death experience and forced retirement into a world he is unfamiliar with, Ben finds himself once again drawn back into that life of lies, violence, and intrigue.
From London to a small village in Tuscany, little by little Ben discovers who the woman he married is, and the real reason why fate had brought them together.
In a word: Bug
Being a computer programmer, this word had a particular meaning for me, where a part of the programme did something other than expected.
Like unexpectedly stopping and freezing the screen. Some very famous programs and operating systems used to have a lot of these ‘bugs’.
More familiarly for all of us, a bug is an unwanted insect pest like a fly, or an ant, though there’s a host of those pesky ‘bugs’.
You could bug someone by hanging around and asking inane questions.
You could also bug someone by surreptitiously planting a microphone on them, or somewhere in their house, car, or office.
A person could have a bug, meaning there’s some germ or bacteria they’ve picked up that makes them very ill, like a cold, or pneumonia. Or, more than likely, it’s a bug going around. School children are particularly susceptible.
And if you like reading books you might have caught the reading bug.
You could tell someone to bug off, that is, to go away.
I might want to bug out, as in disappear, especially if there was someone I didn’t want to see.
It must be the seasonal change
Earlier today, or yesterday now since the clock has ticked over to a new day, I was writing a post about the weather.
Boring as hell, except it gradually turned into a rant about greed, both corporate and government,
There has to be better stuff to talk about than that.
Like today is father’s day.
It’s possibly the most interesting aspect of my life, having never expected as a teenager that I would ever become a father. No, back in those dark and gloomy days I had neither the confidence or the wherewithal to be or do anything.
I guess meeting someone, falling in love, and getting married, pulls you out of the lethargy of youth and forces you to take stock, and become someone, someone who has to have a good job that pays good money so you can get the necessities like a house and a car. You might have these before you get married, we had the cars, but not the house.
Then you realise you need more money because you never seem to earn enough until a baby comes along, and your whole life as you knew it turned upside down and inside out. Bad enough trying to sustain two, it’s now three.
More money, larger house, larger car, a damn good washing machine, and lots of nappies. Wow, I had thought having a baby meant more than a clothesline perpetually filled with nappies.
Until another baby comes along, the cycle repeats, then one has to go to school, and a whole new money pit opens and this costs more than the annual house payments.
Then there’s sport, and extracurricular activities like dancing (though we didn’t have girls, thankfully), then kids get to be very good at sport, so, you guessed it, another money pit. And a steadily growing grocery bill as they get larger and start eating you out of house and home.
There’s never a let-up, from the moment they’re born till the moment they leave home, and that, sometimes, can take a few more years than you expected.
Along the way you hope that your kids will respect you are theuir father and their mother. Sometimes that’s a forlorn hope. Other times children become a blessing and are always there. At least we don’t have to travel to either the other side of the country, or the other side of the world, to see ours, and with any luck, I will see them both later today.
I don’t expect much. My relationship with my father is strained, now, but for many years I was there for him, much more than I should according to my wife. I don’t want for them what happened to me, so I do what I can to make sure it doesn’t happen.
But the unexpected surprise, that one thing that you never expect when this life long journey starts, is the eventuality of grandchildren. Yes, it’s a natural progression in the circle of life, but often it doesn’t quite happen.
We have three granddaughters, and though I know as we get older we will not see them as much or if at all as they make their way out into a very large and far more accessible world than we had at the same time, but I will cherish those moments I have with them now.
I guess today, being the first day of spring, is not such a bad day after all, and it’s amazing that twelve hours later after feeling the gloom and doom of the world, that mood has changed, and that it took so little to change it.
Perhaps that’s what life is really all about.
Family.
Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 16
I’m back home and this story has been sitting on a back burner for a few months, waiting for some more to be written.
The trouble is, there are also other stories to write, and I’m not very good at prioritising.
But, here we are, a few minutes opened up and it didn’t take long to get back into the groove.
Was I working for a ghost?
O’Connor seemed to be more affluent than I because he was living in a flat located in an upmarket building. Getting into the ground floor required a passkey, one I suspect might also be needed to get in the front door of his flat, but I’d worry about that later.
My first problem was that front door, and it was not until a tradesman exited that I took the opportunity to appear to arrive at exactly the same time, pretending to find my card, and brushing past him as he was exiting. He ignored me, his hands full, being in a hurry.
It took a day and a half of watching the building, waiting for an opportunity. His flat was on the third floor and although there was an elevator, I took the stairs, hoping that I wouldn’t run into anyone.
Quickly and quietly, and thankfully without seeing another resident, I came out into the passageway, and it was about ten steps to his front door. Number 37. Not far away, in one direction, the end of the passage, and numbers 38, 39, and 40. In the other, four more flats and the end of the corridor. Windows at either end, perhaps an escape route. I would not use the elevator if I had to leave in a hurry.
There were two elevators and one staircase. Both elevators were stationary on the ground floor.
I knocked lightly on the door to number 37.
No answer.
I knocked a little harder on the door. It was quite solid, and I had to wonder of the knocking sound penetrated the solid wood.
I checked the lock. Simple to open. We’d been given instruction by a master locksmith, and I’d brought my tools.
I waited a minute, checked to see if the elevators were still on the ground floor, then picked the lock, and was inside within a minute.
Silence.
I felt along the wall for a light switch, usually by the door, and found it, and flicked it on. The sudden light was almost blinding, but then my eyes adjusted.
Trashed, much the same as my flat.
But, with a difference.
A woman was stretched out on the floor, unmoving. I could see, from where I was standing, she had been hit on the back of the head and could see the wound, and a trickle of blood through her hair.
Five steps to reach her, I reached down to check for a pulse.
Yes, she was alive.
I shook her gently. She didn’t react. I shook her a little more roughly and she stirred, then, as expected, lashed out.
I caught her hands, saying, “I just found you. I’m not your enemy.”
Of course, taking into account I was a stranger, in her flat without permission, ignoring that and continuing to struggle was an option. Instead, she said, “Who are you?”
“A friend of O’Connor. I worked with him. Something happened to him at work and he said if that happened, I was to come here. He didn’t say anything about you, though.”
“I live here, in the flat next door. I heard a noise and came to investigate. That’s all I remember.”
I helped her up into a sitting position, and, holding her head, looked around. “Did you do this?”
“No. Just got here. But it’s the same at my place. The people who did this are looking for something. By the look of it, they didn’t find it here either.”
I let her go. “I’ll get a damp cloth for your head. It didn’t look serious.”
“It hurts though.”
I stood and went over to the kitchenette. O’Connor was not much of a cook, the benches looked new, and there was nothing out. I looked in a draw near the sink and found a cloth, still with the price tag on it. I ran it under the water, then went back to her, now off the floor and sitting on one of the two chairs. I handed her the wet cloth and she put it against the injured part of her head.
“Who are you again?”
“I worked with him. My name is Sam. It’s unlikely that he mentioned me to you, or anyone. It’s the nature of our work.”
“You told me your name.”
“I’m trying to be helpful.”
“What do you do, what did Oliver do?”
“That, I’m afraid, I can’t say, except that we work for the government, what you might call supervisory work. Usually, it’s very boring, but O’Connor’s latest assignment got him into trouble. He was trying to find a USB with stolen documents on it. We think it has information someone wanted to leak to the newspapers. Oliver found it, and that’s what some people are looking for.”
“He didn’t give it to me. And he never said exactly what he did, but it was as you said, something to do with the government.”
“Perhaps you should go back to your flat, and report this to the police.”
“And you?”
“I was never here. I’m sorry that we couldn’t prevent this happening to you, but it might be a better idea to say nothing and keep well away from here. It can only cause you trouble.”
“I think you’re right.”
She stood and started walking towards the door. Me staying any longer would raise her suspicions about me, and any search I was going to do would have to wait.
I opened the door, she walked out, and I followed shutting the door after me.
“You’re done?”
“There’s nothing for me. I found out what I needed to know, now it’s time to go.”
I left her standing outside the door, and headed for the stairs. A last glance back showed her still outside the flat. I went down to the first landing, then stopped. It was part of the training, to treat everyone as suspicious.
Then I heard her voice, as she passed the top of the staircase, on her way back to her flat. “He was here, looking for the files. No, he’s gone.” A minutes silence, then “On my way.”
Another minute, I heard the elevator car arrive on the third floor.
I quickly ran down the stairs to the ground floor and waited at the door until she came out of the elevator, and heading for the door.
Then as she passed through the front door, I came out into the foyer just in time to see a car stop out the front, and a familiar face out through the rear window.
Nobbin.
\© Charles Heath 2019
A case for Harry Walthenson PI, a new episode
How thrilled Harry Walthenson, Private Detective, had been to see his name painted on the translucent glass window in the door to his office.
Located in Gramercy Park, in an old building full of atmosphere, he had a space renovated to resemble that of Spade and Archer in a scene right out of the Maltese Falcon.
His desk had an antique phone like those used in the 1930s, and a lamp that cast eerie shadows at night. Along one wall was a couch, his bed for more nights than he wanted to remember, and on the other a filing cabinet, waiting for the big case files.
Up till now it had been missing cats and dogs.
Then, everything changed…
Starts at episode 1 – The Wrong Place, The Wrong Time
Episode 108 – Sykes gets some answers
Enjoy
“The Things We Do For Love” – Coming soon
Is love the metaphorical equivalent to ‘walking the plank’; a dive into uncharted waters?
For Henry the only romance he was interested in was a life at sea, and when away from it, he strived to find sanctuary from his family and perhaps life itself. It takes him to a small village by the sea, s place he never expected to find another just like him, Michelle, whom he soon discovers is as mysterious as she is beautiful.
Henry had long since given up the notion of finding romance, and Michelle couldn’t get involved for reasons she could never explain, but in the end both acknowledge that something happened the moment they first met.
Plans were made, plans were revised, and hopes were shattered.
A chance encounter causes Michelle’s past to catch up with her, and whatever hope she had of having a normal life with Henry, or anyone else, is gone. To keep him alive she has to destroy her blossoming relationship, an act that breaks her heart and shatters his.
But can love conquer all?
It takes a few words of encouragement from an unlikely source to send Henry and his friend Radly on an odyssey into the darkest corners of the red light district in a race against time to find and rescue the woman he finally realizes is the love of his life.
The cover, at the moment, looks like this:
‘Tis almost September
Which, of course, means on this side of the world, that Spring is coming.
Perhaps not quite the news the hayfever sufferers want to hear, but it does mean everything in the garden will start to grow again, and, worst luck, also the weeds.
But, it is the end of the month, and it has been a reasonably good one.
Firstly,
My private detective, Harry Walthenson, has finally concluded his first case, and the final episode will be posted this week.
Then, he will be on a new case, yes, there’s no spare time for holidays and such, and, no, it will not be the search for a missing cat!
The latest episode is here: http://bit.ly/2Zqrk23
Secondly,
My serialised stories are progressing, and I’m striving to upload a new episode for each at least once a week.
The other thing that I’ve been working on, basically in those five minutes or so from when my head hits the pillow, till the moment I’m asleep, titles for each of the stories.
For the first, currently labelled with ‘I’ve always wanted to go on a treasure hunt’, I’ve been toying with the word ‘map’ and something witty, like ‘A Map to Trouble’, but it’s not exactly attention-getting. It needs more thought.
The latest episode is here: http://bit.ly/2YWuev1
For the second, currently labelled with ‘What happens after an action-packed start’, it starts in the desert, and will end in a dusty, desolate village in Africa, I’d like to have the word ‘Redemption’ in it.
The latest episode is here: http://bit.ly/2Ni2ABS
The others need more thought, as yet, and I know a title will pop out at me as I get further along with the story.
these stories are here: http://bit.ly/2TTlKzl and here: http://bit.ly/2HtEa4K
Thirdly,
There’s two new episodic stories coming, another one set during World War 2, involving a rescue, and one dealing with the investigation of a crime with a suspect that has all three criteria to be the number one suspect, and might be called, ‘Motive, Means, and Opportunity’.
Also the ‘Being Inspired, Maybe’ stories are continuing, the latest story, Number 65, published, and the next will be available in a day or so. The stories are the fun part of my week, as they usually get written while I’m waiting to collect my youngest granddaughter from school.
As for the novels, one is at the editor, and one is in mid-re-write.
If only there were more hours in a day!!!
Past conversations with my cat – 11
This is Chester. It has been a long, hard day.
Don’t be fooled into thinking he’s asleep.
He isn’t.
It’s late afternoon, and he’s done his rounds, sitting at the back door, the side door, and the front door.
We’re having a continual discussion about food, which, at the moment, he is being very fussy about.
I’ve sent him to bed without dinner. I can see this is going to be another test of wills.
“The Price of Fame”, A Short Story
I’ve been toiling away and this is the result. My stories are usually longer, but I thought I’d try my hand at writing a piece of short fiction.
The Price of Fame
I looked at the invitation, a feeling of dread coming over me. It was not entirely unexpected but like a great many things that had suddenly come into my life it caused equal measures of fear and excitement.
The gold edging and the perfect script displaying my name in the exact centre of the envelope made it almost unique. Very few people ever received such an invitation.
I held it in my hand for a longer than necessary, then put it down on the desk carefully, as if it would explode if I dropped it.
My first instinct, driven by fear, was not to accept.
But, fear or not, there was no question of me not attending. Circumstances had painted me into a corner; I’d agreed to go a long time ago when I thought there was no chance it would come to pass.
Way back then, I had been compared to the aspiring painter in an attic having to die before I made any sort of impression. In those days people thought it amusing. I thought it was amusing. Kirsty, in particular, had thought it was as impossible as I had.
Now it was not amusing. Not even remotely.
My life was once quiet, peaceful, sedate, even boring. That didn’t mean I lacked imagination, it was just not out on display for everyone to see. Inspired by reading endless books, I had the capacity to transport myself into another world, divorced from reality, where my boring existence became whatever I wanted it to be.
It was also instrumental in bringing Kirsty into my life. In reality, I thought she’d never take a second look at me, let alone a first. So I pretended to be someone else. Original, witty, charming, underneath more scared than I’d ever known.
And yet she knew, she’d always known, and didn’t care.
As we spent more time together, she discovered I liked to write, not finish anything, just start, write a hundred pages, then lose interest. Like everything I did. Start, and never finish.
Why not? It would never be published. It would never succeed.
So she bribed me. If I didn’t finish my first book and send it away, I couldn’t marry her. It didn’t matter if it was rejected, all I had to do was finish a book, and send it.
The thought of marrying her had not entered my mind, because I hadn’t thought she would. Incentive enough, I picked out one of the unfinished manuscripts and humoured her. She read bits of it, not saying a word. Sometimes she’d put a note or two on the manuscript, her equivalent to sweet nothings, and with it I gained an inner confidence in my own ability, not only to write, but in many other aspects of my life.
When it was finished, it was Kirsty who sent it off. She read it, packaged it, addressed it, and sent it, before I had a chance to change her mind. Once gone, I heaved a huge sigh of relief. It was done. That was, as far as I was concerned, the end of it.
It was not possible that one letter could change a person’s life so dramatically. I came home to the all knowing smile, and mischievous whimsicality that had always suggested trouble.
Trouble indeed!
My book was accepted. With a cheque called an advance. For more money than I knew what to do with.
This was followed not long after by publication. And a dramatic change to my life, one I didn’t want. To become a public person, to face an enormous number of people, people I didn’t know.
I went back to being scared.
Kirsty smiled at me, and told me how wonderful I looked in my monkey suit. Why couldn’t I go in jeans and a dress shirt? All the best actors in Hollywood did it.
“This is not Hollywood. You’re not an actor.” It was a simple, practical, answer.
The hell I wasn’t. I could act sick, dying, fake a heart attack, anything. “What am I going to say?”
“You could talk about books.” Quiet, efficient, oozing the confidence I didn’t feel.
She didn’t fuss. She took it in her stride. She dressed in her usual simple elegance, in a manner that made me love to be seen with her. I couldn’t tie my tie, so she did it for me. She straightened my jacket, because I couldn’t do that either. Nerves. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them. Or was that a reference to wives, or mistresses, or something else?
The palms of my hands were sweating. Meatball hands, I thought, the sort of palms that betrayed the pretenders. Me, I was the pretender. My neck felt too large for the shirt. Beads of sweat formed on my brow. Where was a sponge when you needed one?
“I can’t do this.”
“You can.”
We hadn’t even left the hotel yet.
“How long before the execution.”
She looked at me with her whimsical smile. “Long enough for me to give you a hard time.”
I lost count of the number of times I had to go to the bathroom, for one thing or another. Nerves I said. Perhaps a dozen Valium or something similar. Did I have any? Had she hidden them? Why did she keep smiling?
In the car, I looked at my watch at least a dozen times. I couldn’t breathe. It was too hot, too cold. She held my hand, and it served best to stop the trembling that had set in. Why did I agree to this? Why?
We were greeted by the Events Manager, who was polite and genuinely interested. He took us inside where he introduced the interviewer, another woman who oozed confidence and charm, who went over the format, and generally tried to set me at ease.
I didn’t let Kirsty’s hand go. Not yet. She was my lifeline, the umbilical cord. When it was severed, I knew I was going to die.
Bathroom? Where was the bathroom? Hell, five minutes to go, and I felt like passing out. No, Kirsty couldn’t come in. Comb my hair. Straighten my tie, no it was straight. Maybe I could hide in here? I looked around. No, maybe not.
Time.
The cue man was standing beside me, hand gently on my back. He knew the score. He knew I would turn and run the first chance I got. Kirsty was on the other side, smiling. Did she know too?
Then the announcement, my cue to walk on.
The gentle shove, the bright lights, the deafening applause, the seemingly endless walk to the chair, dear God, would I make it without tripping over?
How many times had I made this trip? I stood, facing the audience, waved, then sat. It was the fifteenth. You’d think I’d learned by now.
There was nothing to it.
© Charles Heath 2016-2019
