Days 150 and 151 – Writing Exercise

…

It was odd that an unidentified body washed up on shore in a relatively quiet stretch of shoreline.

It was winter, there were very few people about, and the person who found the body had only made a last-minute decision to go for a walk.

As it was, the anticipated rain came early, so it was a grim discovery on an appalling day.

I was well into the second half of the graveyard shift, shortly before dawn, and struggling to stay awake doing the paperwork I had been putting off for weeks.

The phone rang just as I was nodding off.  Surprise nearly saw me fall off the chair.

I grabbed the receiver before the shrill sound set my nerves on edge.  My partner had just left the room in search of some decent coffee.

“Yes?”

I should have answered with name and rank, and ended with How may I help you, but I hadn’t before and wasn’t going to start now.

“A member of the public had reported a body on Wilson’s Beach; uniforms are on their way “

I knew where Wilson’s Beach was, at the end of what used to be an almost impassable track, a short stretch of sand where teens took their alcohol and stupidity for a run.  This wasn’t the first death to turn up there.

And it wouldn’t be the last.

“On my way.”

Not exactly true, I had to wait for Burns to get back from his odyssey.  He would have more success finding Jason, the Argonauts, and the Golden Fleece than finding decent coffee in this building.

He looked disappointed when he arrived back five minutes after I hung up.

“We’ve got a job.”

“A drunk got hit crossing the road?”  That was quite literally our last job.

“A dead body washed up on shore.”

“Let me guess.  Wilson’s Beach?”  He grabbed his coat and walked through the door I’d opened for him.

“How did you know?”

He just gave me one of those looks.

…

It was every bit as dreary outside as I’d imagined it would be, and rain was sleeting down on the vehicle we’d requisitioned before shift.

It was better than the last one, and at least it had fuel in it.  We would not be lucky enough to get one of the electric vehicles.

I turned the heater up and the fan on full blast.  It blasted cold air.  The windows began to fog, a dangerous thing as the first shards of daylight appeared, making it hard to distinguish anything.

Water streamed off the windscreen and sloshed up from under the car, and those passing in the opposite direction.  It was like driving through a tidal wave.

I was expecting more traffic.

Burns was surly at the best of times, a career detective who had only progressed as far as Detective Sergeant because he put family first.

He was one of the better ones I’d been paired with, except for being often regaled with the details of his life, wife, and six children, all of whom seemed to be larger than life. 

At least he had a family, I didn’t, and the wife I had bailed many years ago after the first time I was nearly fatally shot.  I guess you had to have a certain quality to be a cop’s wife.

It wasn’t a morning for conversation.  Yesterday it was Burns’ 30th wedding anniversary, and their youngest child’s 18th birthday, a double celebration.  He had come straight to work from the party.

I knew from his expression where he’d prefer to be.

Details of the case, if any, would magically appear in my cell phone, hopefully before we reached the crime scene, if it was a crime.

…

We arrived to join the collection of flashing lights easily seen in the darkened distance.

From the clearing just off the road, it was a longish twisty hike down to the beach.  Not so bad going down, and an absolute bastard getting back up.

A uniformed officer in a raincoat was on guard.

Oliver, a newly assigned Detective Constable, had been assigned to me to learn the ropes.  He was enthusiastic, but given his qualifications, far superior to Burns and mine, I thought he would be better off as a rocket scientist or jet fighter pilot.

Not standing in the rain waiting to fill in the crime scene details.

It was still raining.

“You look far more awake than I am, Oliver,” I said, wishing I could syphon some of his enthusiasm.

“Nothing like a dead body to liven up what might be an otherwise boring day.”

He handed us the necessary gear so we could go down, and we prepared.

“What’s the story?” I asked.

“Male, between 30 and 40, has not been in the water long.  Initial inspection showed a bump to the head, but not severe enough to assume he was dead or unconscious before entering the water.  My thought is that the victim fell overboard before or after hitting his head and face down, drowned.  Sometimes the simple explanation…”

Oliver was like the Chief Superintendent, both liked closed, uncomplicated cases.

“We’ll know more after the post-mortem, I’m guessing.  Anyone reported missing from a boat?”

“Not that I know of, but I’ll do a deeper dive when I get back to the station.”

We were ready, and Oliver led the way.  The path had been recently hacked to clear away the usual entanglement of shrubbery. Several investigators were picking their way through the edges for any evidence.

At the beach level, there was a defined path we could walk along, about 20 yards to the water’s edge, where a tent had been set up over the body.

More investigators were searching the water’s edge.
.
I stopped at the entrance to the tent.  Doc, the name we gave our coroner, was kneeling beside the body.

After a few minutes, she straightened and looked in my direction.

“Henry.”

“Doc.  What have we got here?”

“A dead body.”

Doc had a strange sense of humour, one I got, but few others understood.  Her medical experience came from a stint in the Army and volunteering in African hotspots.  As well as the obligatory years as an intern in ER, in general practise, and specialising, though I was not exactly sure in what.

Didn’t matter, she had seen everything, and then some.

“Aside from the obvious.”

“Wounds consistent with falling overboard.”

“Pushed?”

“Or fell.  Several contusions to the head, again consistent with a fall.  He didn’t dive in on his own volition, though in the rough seas out beyond the bay, a wave could have picked him up and sent him back towards the boat.  We’ll check the weather and tides.”

“Not a fall from a ship?”

“Possible, but there’d be more damage when he hit the water.  I’ll know more when we get him back to the morgue.  Doesn’t look like he’s been in the water too long.  I’d be getting a list of boats in the area.”

“ID?”

“Nothing.  A John Doe for the moment.”

I took a look at the body and surrounds.  Swept in from the sea, and the person who found the body obviously dragged the body out of the water to check for life signs.

The waves were crashing, and it was rougher further out.  Nothing screaming murder, not then.

Burns had spoken to the person who found the body.  “The dog found it, rather than the owner.  He then dragged the victim up the sand and checked for life signs.  None.  Called the police.  Only one set of foot and paw prints.”

Burns put his head in the tent, took a moment, then came out.

“Not a party animal, not a fisherman.  Just a normal person, like someone catching a ferry home.”

“Except there are no ferries.”

“There is that.  I hate John Doe cases.”

He was not the only one. “Get a photo of his face.  We’ll get Tech to run a check and see if we can get an ID. Also, check the nearest marinas for boats out last night.”

“Roger that.” Two notes in the pad, and back into the tent for a face photo.

Until we knew who he was and where he came from, this was not going to move quickly.  I made sure he sent a photo to the Chief Constable.  We needed his authority to widen the ID search beyond our jurisdiction.

As it turned out, we didn’t have to wait that long.  An anonymous tip was received telling us that the man on the beach was Joshua Stevens.  It came before the 10 o’clock news, and, oddly, it was on the 10 o’clock news.

A text message came from Wendy, one of the tech staff at the station who was assigned to our investigative team, telling me that there was an item of interest in the local radio station’s 10 o’clock news bulletin, and attached was a sound grab.

“The body of a 41-year-old London man, Joshua Stevens, was found on the shoreline at Wilson’s Beach in the early hours of this morning.

“So far, it is not known who Mr Stevens was, or if he had any family, or why he was in the area.  Police are treating the death as accidental, but investigations are ongoing.”

That was it.  It was more than I knew 10 minutes ago, and I  thought it interesting that someone was more informed than I was.

That someone had to be Alison Brentwater, ace reporter for the local Chronicle, and if it could be said I had a nemesis, it was her.

…

Alison Brentwater and I were old sparring partners.  It was not for the first time she had gazumped me in getting the juicy details of a murder suspect, and I often suspected she had a spy inside the station house.

I had her number on speed dial.

“Henry.”

“Alison.”

“Perhaps we should switch places,” she said with that special sarcastic tone she saved for me.

“The pay is terrible.”

“Perhaps not, then?”

“How?”

“I have my sources.”

“I’ll shout you coffee and cake, and we will have a talk.”

It wasn’t the first time she had all but thrown a spoke in the works, and I could feel the Chief Super reaching for the phone.  I didn’t feel like a bollocking, not until I knew more.

“20 minutes, usual place.”

That she didn’t tell me where to go in no uncertain terms, like the last time, worried me.

. .

Petra’s Cafe was off the main street and an excellent choice to not be seen in.  Petra was both Alison’s and my friend from University, the one who preferred being a barista to an accountant.

I was going to be a journalist, but the truth was Alison was so much better at it than I was, so I chose another profession.  It wasn’t being a detective at first, that just came out of left field.

Alison thought it amusing, and typically of her, said she made a better detective, and in her inimitable manner set out to prove it.

She was the sort of girl you could love to hate.  I had once considered dating, but it would not have lasted.  She was too competitive in everything.

Petra was a different story, and I was still considering how I could approach her, given that she did not think as much of me as I did of her.

Petra was serving tables when I arrived, and I deposited myself at the back.  It took a few minutes for her to reach me.

“You’re looking glum?”

“The case.”

“The floater?”  Then she got that look.  “Alison and her spies.”  She shook her head.  “You’re going to have to up your game.  Latte?”

“Double shot.”

“That bad?”

We both saw her coming.  It was not hard.  She wasn’t conventional, still sporting green hair from an undercover reporting job in the city’s more seedy nightclubs.  When she told me, I told her I didn’t want to be woken with the news she had been found in an alley somewhere.

It didn’t go down well.

“The usual,” she said, flopping into a chair. 

Petra smiled, “Good morning to you, too.”  And left.

“How do you do it?” I asked.

“It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.”

I knew she had a contact list that was a who’s who of the city, names that would make up an interesting suspect list if anything happened to her, if that book was ever found.

“Don’t spin me a line.  There was no ID on the body, no distinguishing features, nothing except perhaps dental records, but I fear not even that will help us.  How do you know?

“I briefly interviewed him two weeks ago in relation to an altercation in the Burberry Inn.  Not a police matter, a friend was a victim of domestic violence, I was trying to get something on her boyfriend, and Joshua witnessed him being an ass.  That’s it.”

“He was drinking a pint in the pub?”

“By himself, minding his own business.  I got his name, that’s it.  He wasn’t very helpful.  He had a slight accent, I suspect he was born in England to foreign parents, no wedding ring, reasonably expensive clothes, nervous sort, kept looking in the direction of the door like he was expecting someone.”

“From London?”

“The bartender asked if he was new in town.  He said he was up from London on business.”

“You think his death was an accident.”

Our coffee arrived in paper cups.  Petra obviously thought we were both in a hurry.

“First impressions. But knowing now who he is, it depends on who he was doing business with. I guess I’d better set the wheels in motion.”

“I helped you, you have to help me.”

“You think I’m going to find out more than you.  Perhaps it’s more appropriate for you to help me.”

“We’ll see.”

She put the lid back on her coffee, smiled, and left.

…

By the time I got back to the station, I had Oliver coming back from the crime scene, the body collected and taken to the morgue, and Burns on his way to the Burberry Inn looking for witnesses and CCTV.  Oliver’s first job was to find as much information on Joshua Stevens as he could.

I went to see the Chief Superintendent and advised him on progress, the fact that Alison Brentwater had given us a preliminary identification of the body and the circumstances, and then held my breath. 

I also added that consensus so far considered this the result of an accident, somewhat muddied by the fact that no one reported it, or a missing person within a 50-mile radius, which I’d checked before I got to his office.  I was in the process of checking elsewhere in the country.

He simply wanted the case closed, but also the I’s dotted and the T’s crossed.

An email arrived with a list of missing persons after increasing the scope to Greater London, and Joshua’s name was on it, reported by his brother, and not his wife. 

There were file notes on the interviews with both.  The brother was concerned because they were in constant contact, and he had not sent an email for a week.

His wife said he was often on business trips that were sporadic and of indeterminate length.  She thought he was just being Joshua, though she did say she suspected him of having an affair.  She added that she had no idea where he was, and he rarely called.  It was, I thought, an odd relationship.

I told Oliver to get a hold of his phone records and those of any family members.  They would make interesting reading.

Next, I went down to the wharf where the two boats that offered cruises, fishing trips, and dinner cruises had their offices.

The first hadn’t run any cruises in the last few days.  The second had run three, a fishing trip in the morning, a luncheon cruise, and, after dark, dinner cruises taking in the shore lights.

Margaret Bently, married to the son of the ship’s master and owner of Seaside Voyagers, according to the staff photographs posted behind the counter, was in the middle of a charter booking, city folk looking for an ocean adventure, or so it seemed.

The sales pitch was far more graphically interesting than the reality.  Unless the picture I had in my mind was wrong.

I waited the five minutes before the conversation ended, not quite as expected.  She did not seem pleased.

Putting the phone down, she gave me her attention.

I showed her my warrant card, and before I said a word, she was on the defensive.  “We had nothing to do with anyone washing up on shore.”

To me, that sounded more like they did, but we’re not going to admit it.

“I take it you heard the news.”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Your company ran three tours yesterday.  I would like a passenger manifest for each and proof they got on and got off the boat.”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“I can order the shutdown of this business, and impounding of all your vessels as potential crime scenes, and a complete audit of your operation, as well as a complete audit of your accounts.

“Apparently, the coast guard is about to investigate the possibility of small operations like yours picking up drugs brought in by large ships.  It will only take one call.”

I had seen a memo hinting at a joint operation between services on drug importation, so I simply added a little embellishment. 

She glared at me.  “We have nothing to hide.”  Her tone suggested otherwise.  She pulled a binder out from under the counter and extracted three sheets, copied them and then gave them to me.

Passenger lists.

“Thank you.”

She ignored me.  The phone had started ringing again.

…

The afternoon was taken up with Burns putting together a board that had Joshua Stevens on the centre, his brother Roger on one side, and his wife Stella, nee Williams, on the other.  The photographs were missing.

The timeline working back from the time of discovery on Wilson’s Beach at about 6 am, time of death from 8 pm to 4 am, and before that, not a lot.

I listed Joshua in the Inn and Seaside Voyagers.  Joshua’s name was not on any of the passengers’ lists, but it was possible he could have used an assumed name.  Oliver was going to follow up on all the names.

We needed a coroner’s report, and that was in progress.

Joshua had a very small social media footprint.  In face it was a Facebook page that had an icon and name and little else.  There were no friends or family, and no wife.  It was like he created it and then forgot it.

His wife had a similar page, a photo of EmWonder Woman, not hers, and no friends’ posts. 

His brother had nothing but a name.

It seemed odd that the whole family just didn’t exist, outside a dead body and two ghosts.  I asked the station that took the missing persons report to bring them in and ask more questions.  And get photographs of them.

It was very unusual to be so anonymous.  What struck me as a possibility was that Joshua and his wife were in some witness protection scheme, and he had been flushed out into the open.

There were no newspaper articles about either of them, which was a red flag.  I set Wendy to dig deeper into the mire to see if anything was available anywhere on the internet.

Our board was very scant on details.

…

Before going home, I was called into the Morgue, where the results of the post mortem were in.

Death was not by drowning.  He was not alive before he went into the water.  In fact, he had suffered a severe heart attack and died quickly, not dragged out, and perhaps that was a good thing.

He had lipstick and scent about his person so he had been with a woman shortly before he died.  No clues as to where he had been before ending up in the water, and equally, his time in the water hadn’t washed away the trace evidence.

It led to another possibility: he was murdered on the beach, and that put the man who discovered the body back on the list.

I went back to the office and added more items to the board, including the man who found the body, Jake Williams, and a photo Oliver had taken of him.

It was then that I noticed a slight similarity between him and Margaret at Seaside Voyagers.  And the fact that both shared a surname.

Out of curiosity, I typed in the name Stella Williams and found an old Facebook page with a young photo of Stella.

No mistaking the resemblance.

What were the odds that Stella, Margaret and Jack were related?

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

Days 150 and 151 – Writing Exercise

…

It was odd that an unidentified body washed up on shore in a relatively quiet stretch of shoreline.

It was winter, there were very few people about, and the person who found the body had only made a last-minute decision to go for a walk.

As it was, the anticipated rain came early, so it was a grim discovery on an appalling day.

I was well into the second half of the graveyard shift, shortly before dawn, and struggling to stay awake doing the paperwork I had been putting off for weeks.

The phone rang just as I was nodding off.  Surprise nearly saw me fall off the chair.

I grabbed the receiver before the shrill sound set my nerves on edge.  My partner had just left the room in search of some decent coffee.

“Yes?”

I should have answered with name and rank, and ended with How may I help you, but I hadn’t before and wasn’t going to start now.

“A member of the public had reported a body on Wilson’s Beach; uniforms are on their way “

I knew where Wilson’s Beach was, at the end of what used to be an almost impassable track, a short stretch of sand where teens took their alcohol and stupidity for a run.  This wasn’t the first death to turn up there.

And it wouldn’t be the last.

“On my way.”

Not exactly true, I had to wait for Burns to get back from his odyssey.  He would have more success finding Jason, the Argonauts, and the Golden Fleece than finding decent coffee in this building.

He looked disappointed when he arrived back five minutes after I hung up.

“We’ve got a job.”

“A drunk got hit crossing the road?”  That was quite literally our last job.

“A dead body washed up on shore.”

“Let me guess.  Wilson’s Beach?”  He grabbed his coat and walked through the door I’d opened for him.

“How did you know?”

He just gave me one of those looks.

…

It was every bit as dreary outside as I’d imagined it would be, and rain was sleeting down on the vehicle we’d requisitioned before shift.

It was better than the last one, and at least it had fuel in it.  We would not be lucky enough to get one of the electric vehicles.

I turned the heater up and the fan on full blast.  It blasted cold air.  The windows began to fog, a dangerous thing as the first shards of daylight appeared, making it hard to distinguish anything.

Water streamed off the windscreen and sloshed up from under the car, and those passing in the opposite direction.  It was like driving through a tidal wave.

I was expecting more traffic.

Burns was surly at the best of times, a career detective who had only progressed as far as Detective Sergeant because he put family first.

He was one of the better ones I’d been paired with, except for being often regaled with the details of his life, wife, and six children, all of whom seemed to be larger than life. 

At least he had a family, I didn’t, and the wife I had bailed many years ago after the first time I was nearly fatally shot.  I guess you had to have a certain quality to be a cop’s wife.

It wasn’t a morning for conversation.  Yesterday it was Burns’ 30th wedding anniversary, and their youngest child’s 18th birthday, a double celebration.  He had come straight to work from the party.

I knew from his expression where he’d prefer to be.

Details of the case, if any, would magically appear in my cell phone, hopefully before we reached the crime scene, if it was a crime.

…

We arrived to join the collection of flashing lights easily seen in the darkened distance.

From the clearing just off the road, it was a longish twisty hike down to the beach.  Not so bad going down, and an absolute bastard getting back up.

A uniformed officer in a raincoat was on guard.

Oliver, a newly assigned Detective Constable, had been assigned to me to learn the ropes.  He was enthusiastic, but given his qualifications, far superior to Burns and mine, I thought he would be better off as a rocket scientist or jet fighter pilot.

Not standing in the rain waiting to fill in the crime scene details.

It was still raining.

“You look far more awake than I am, Oliver,” I said, wishing I could syphon some of his enthusiasm.

“Nothing like a dead body to liven up what might be an otherwise boring day.”

He handed us the necessary gear so we could go down, and we prepared.

“What’s the story?” I asked.

“Male, between 30 and 40, has not been in the water long.  Initial inspection showed a bump to the head, but not severe enough to assume he was dead or unconscious before entering the water.  My thought is that the victim fell overboard before or after hitting his head and face down, drowned.  Sometimes the simple explanation…”

Oliver was like the Chief Superintendent, both liked closed, uncomplicated cases.

“We’ll know more after the post-mortem, I’m guessing.  Anyone reported missing from a boat?”

“Not that I know of, but I’ll do a deeper dive when I get back to the station.”

We were ready, and Oliver led the way.  The path had been recently hacked to clear away the usual entanglement of shrubbery. Several investigators were picking their way through the edges for any evidence.

At the beach level, there was a defined path we could walk along, about 20 yards to the water’s edge, where a tent had been set up over the body.

More investigators were searching the water’s edge.
.
I stopped at the entrance to the tent.  Doc, the name we gave our coroner, was kneeling beside the body.

After a few minutes, she straightened and looked in my direction.

“Henry.”

“Doc.  What have we got here?”

“A dead body.”

Doc had a strange sense of humour, one I got, but few others understood.  Her medical experience came from a stint in the Army and volunteering in African hotspots.  As well as the obligatory years as an intern in ER, in general practise, and specialising, though I was not exactly sure in what.

Didn’t matter, she had seen everything, and then some.

“Aside from the obvious.”

“Wounds consistent with falling overboard.”

“Pushed?”

“Or fell.  Several contusions to the head, again consistent with a fall.  He didn’t dive in on his own volition, though in the rough seas out beyond the bay, a wave could have picked him up and sent him back towards the boat.  We’ll check the weather and tides.”

“Not a fall from a ship?”

“Possible, but there’d be more damage when he hit the water.  I’ll know more when we get him back to the morgue.  Doesn’t look like he’s been in the water too long.  I’d be getting a list of boats in the area.”

“ID?”

“Nothing.  A John Doe for the moment.”

I took a look at the body and surrounds.  Swept in from the sea, and the person who found the body obviously dragged the body out of the water to check for life signs.

The waves were crashing, and it was rougher further out.  Nothing screaming murder, not then.

Burns had spoken to the person who found the body.  “The dog found it, rather than the owner.  He then dragged the victim up the sand and checked for life signs.  None.  Called the police.  Only one set of foot and paw prints.”

Burns put his head in the tent, took a moment, then came out.

“Not a party animal, not a fisherman.  Just a normal person, like someone catching a ferry home.”

“Except there are no ferries.”

“There is that.  I hate John Doe cases.”

He was not the only one. “Get a photo of his face.  We’ll get Tech to run a check and see if we can get an ID. Also, check the nearest marinas for boats out last night.”

“Roger that.” Two notes in the pad, and back into the tent for a face photo.

Until we knew who he was and where he came from, this was not going to move quickly.  I made sure he sent a photo to the Chief Constable.  We needed his authority to widen the ID search beyond our jurisdiction.

As it turned out, we didn’t have to wait that long.  An anonymous tip was received telling us that the man on the beach was Joshua Stevens.  It came before the 10 o’clock news, and, oddly, it was on the 10 o’clock news.

A text message came from Wendy, one of the tech staff at the station who was assigned to our investigative team, telling me that there was an item of interest in the local radio station’s 10 o’clock news bulletin, and attached was a sound grab.

“The body of a 41-year-old London man, Joshua Stevens, was found on the shoreline at Wilson’s Beach in the early hours of this morning.

“So far, it is not known who Mr Stevens was, or if he had any family, or why he was in the area.  Police are treating the death as accidental, but investigations are ongoing.”

That was it.  It was more than I knew 10 minutes ago, and I  thought it interesting that someone was more informed than I was.

That someone had to be Alison Brentwater, ace reporter for the local Chronicle, and if it could be said I had a nemesis, it was her.

…

Alison Brentwater and I were old sparring partners.  It was not for the first time she had gazumped me in getting the juicy details of a murder suspect, and I often suspected she had a spy inside the station house.

I had her number on speed dial.

“Henry.”

“Alison.”

“Perhaps we should switch places,” she said with that special sarcastic tone she saved for me.

“The pay is terrible.”

“Perhaps not, then?”

“How?”

“I have my sources.”

“I’ll shout you coffee and cake, and we will have a talk.”

It wasn’t the first time she had all but thrown a spoke in the works, and I could feel the Chief Super reaching for the phone.  I didn’t feel like a bollocking, not until I knew more.

“20 minutes, usual place.”

That she didn’t tell me where to go in no uncertain terms, like the last time, worried me.

. .

Petra’s Cafe was off the main street and an excellent choice to not be seen in.  Petra was both Alison’s and my friend from University, the one who preferred being a barista to an accountant.

I was going to be a journalist, but the truth was Alison was so much better at it than I was, so I chose another profession.  It wasn’t being a detective at first, that just came out of left field.

Alison thought it amusing, and typically of her, said she made a better detective, and in her inimitable manner set out to prove it.

She was the sort of girl you could love to hate.  I had once considered dating, but it would not have lasted.  She was too competitive in everything.

Petra was a different story, and I was still considering how I could approach her, given that she did not think as much of me as I did of her.

Petra was serving tables when I arrived, and I deposited myself at the back.  It took a few minutes for her to reach me.

“You’re looking glum?”

“The case.”

“The floater?”  Then she got that look.  “Alison and her spies.”  She shook her head.  “You’re going to have to up your game.  Latte?”

“Double shot.”

“That bad?”

We both saw her coming.  It was not hard.  She wasn’t conventional, still sporting green hair from an undercover reporting job in the city’s more seedy nightclubs.  When she told me, I told her I didn’t want to be woken with the news she had been found in an alley somewhere.

It didn’t go down well.

“The usual,” she said, flopping into a chair. 

Petra smiled, “Good morning to you, too.”  And left.

“How do you do it?” I asked.

“It’s not what you know, it’s who you know.”

I knew she had a contact list that was a who’s who of the city, names that would make up an interesting suspect list if anything happened to her, if that book was ever found.

“Don’t spin me a line.  There was no ID on the body, no distinguishing features, nothing except perhaps dental records, but I fear not even that will help us.  How do you know?

“I briefly interviewed him two weeks ago in relation to an altercation in the Burberry Inn.  Not a police matter, a friend was a victim of domestic violence, I was trying to get something on her boyfriend, and Joshua witnessed him being an ass.  That’s it.”

“He was drinking a pint in the pub?”

“By himself, minding his own business.  I got his name, that’s it.  He wasn’t very helpful.  He had a slight accent, I suspect he was born in England to foreign parents, no wedding ring, reasonably expensive clothes, nervous sort, kept looking in the direction of the door like he was expecting someone.”

“From London?”

“The bartender asked if he was new in town.  He said he was up from London on business.”

“You think his death was an accident.”

Our coffee arrived in paper cups.  Petra obviously thought we were both in a hurry.

“First impressions. But knowing now who he is, it depends on who he was doing business with. I guess I’d better set the wheels in motion.”

“I helped you, you have to help me.”

“You think I’m going to find out more than you.  Perhaps it’s more appropriate for you to help me.”

“We’ll see.”

She put the lid back on her coffee, smiled, and left.

…

By the time I got back to the station, I had Oliver coming back from the crime scene, the body collected and taken to the morgue, and Burns on his way to the Burberry Inn looking for witnesses and CCTV.  Oliver’s first job was to find as much information on Joshua Stevens as he could.

I went to see the Chief Superintendent and advised him on progress, the fact that Alison Brentwater had given us a preliminary identification of the body and the circumstances, and then held my breath. 

I also added that consensus so far considered this the result of an accident, somewhat muddied by the fact that no one reported it, or a missing person within a 50-mile radius, which I’d checked before I got to his office.  I was in the process of checking elsewhere in the country.

He simply wanted the case closed, but also the I’s dotted and the T’s crossed.

An email arrived with a list of missing persons after increasing the scope to Greater London, and Joshua’s name was on it, reported by his brother, and not his wife. 

There were file notes on the interviews with both.  The brother was concerned because they were in constant contact, and he had not sent an email for a week.

His wife said he was often on business trips that were sporadic and of indeterminate length.  She thought he was just being Joshua, though she did say she suspected him of having an affair.  She added that she had no idea where he was, and he rarely called.  It was, I thought, an odd relationship.

I told Oliver to get a hold of his phone records and those of any family members.  They would make interesting reading.

Next, I went down to the wharf where the two boats that offered cruises, fishing trips, and dinner cruises had their offices.

The first hadn’t run any cruises in the last few days.  The second had run three, a fishing trip in the morning, a luncheon cruise, and, after dark, dinner cruises taking in the shore lights.

Margaret Bently, married to the son of the ship’s master and owner of Seaside Voyagers, according to the staff photographs posted behind the counter, was in the middle of a charter booking, city folk looking for an ocean adventure, or so it seemed.

The sales pitch was far more graphically interesting than the reality.  Unless the picture I had in my mind was wrong.

I waited the five minutes before the conversation ended, not quite as expected.  She did not seem pleased.

Putting the phone down, she gave me her attention.

I showed her my warrant card, and before I said a word, she was on the defensive.  “We had nothing to do with anyone washing up on shore.”

To me, that sounded more like they did, but we’re not going to admit it.

“I take it you heard the news.”

“Who hasn’t?”

“Your company ran three tours yesterday.  I would like a passenger manifest for each and proof they got on and got off the boat.”

“Do you have a warrant?”

“I can order the shutdown of this business, and impounding of all your vessels as potential crime scenes, and a complete audit of your operation, as well as a complete audit of your accounts.

“Apparently, the coast guard is about to investigate the possibility of small operations like yours picking up drugs brought in by large ships.  It will only take one call.”

I had seen a memo hinting at a joint operation between services on drug importation, so I simply added a little embellishment. 

She glared at me.  “We have nothing to hide.”  Her tone suggested otherwise.  She pulled a binder out from under the counter and extracted three sheets, copied them and then gave them to me.

Passenger lists.

“Thank you.”

She ignored me.  The phone had started ringing again.

…

The afternoon was taken up with Burns putting together a board that had Joshua Stevens on the centre, his brother Roger on one side, and his wife Stella, nee Williams, on the other.  The photographs were missing.

The timeline working back from the time of discovery on Wilson’s Beach at about 6 am, time of death from 8 pm to 4 am, and before that, not a lot.

I listed Joshua in the Inn and Seaside Voyagers.  Joshua’s name was not on any of the passengers’ lists, but it was possible he could have used an assumed name.  Oliver was going to follow up on all the names.

We needed a coroner’s report, and that was in progress.

Joshua had a very small social media footprint.  In face it was a Facebook page that had an icon and name and little else.  There were no friends or family, and no wife.  It was like he created it and then forgot it.

His wife had a similar page, a photo of EmWonder Woman, not hers, and no friends’ posts. 

His brother had nothing but a name.

It seemed odd that the whole family just didn’t exist, outside a dead body and two ghosts.  I asked the station that took the missing persons report to bring them in and ask more questions.  And get photographs of them.

It was very unusual to be so anonymous.  What struck me as a possibility was that Joshua and his wife were in some witness protection scheme, and he had been flushed out into the open.

There were no newspaper articles about either of them, which was a red flag.  I set Wendy to dig deeper into the mire to see if anything was available anywhere on the internet.

Our board was very scant on details.

…

Before going home, I was called into the Morgue, where the results of the post mortem were in.

Death was not by drowning.  He was not alive before he went into the water.  In fact, he had suffered a severe heart attack and died quickly, not dragged out, and perhaps that was a good thing.

He had lipstick and scent about his person so he had been with a woman shortly before he died.  No clues as to where he had been before ending up in the water, and equally, his time in the water hadn’t washed away the trace evidence.

It led to another possibility: he was murdered on the beach, and that put the man who discovered the body back on the list.

I went back to the office and added more items to the board, including the man who found the body, Jake Williams, and a photo Oliver had taken of him.

It was then that I noticed a slight similarity between him and Margaret at Seaside Voyagers.  And the fact that both shared a surname.

Out of curiosity, I typed in the name Stella Williams and found an old Facebook page with a young photo of Stella.

No mistaking the resemblance.

What were the odds that Stella, Margaret and Jack were related?

…

©  Charles Heath  2026

More about my second novel

…

Zoe is now painfully reminded why she did not get involved with other people, why it was better to be responsible only for herself.  It was easy, perhaps to blame John for making his own problems by not heeding her advice, but, just the same, she felt a small shred of responsibility for his current situation.

After learning that John has been kidnapped by Olga, Zoe first goes to see an old colleague, and Yuri’s friend, Dominica to interrogate her, then meets up with Yuri, and it does not end well for one of them.  After telling her he’s the elusive Romanov, Yuri informs her of the fact that Olga has taken John and that Worthington is about to use John’s mother as leverage against her.

Not knowing immediately where Olga is, but believing she will not kill him because Zoe will come to her, she detours to take care of Worthington, having finally realised why he was searching for her.  In another of her many disguises, room service visits his room, and Worthington gets more than dinner served up to him.

Of course, Yuri lies. He is not Romanov, and Romanov is not trying to kill her, but find her.

Who is she? Well, you’ll have to read the book to find out.

And, as for Olga, well, hell hath no fury than a woman avenging a woman avenging her son!

…

More about my second novel

…

Zoe is now painfully reminded why she did not get involved with other people, why it was better to be responsible only for herself.  It was easy, perhaps to blame John for making his own problems by not heeding her advice, but, just the same, she felt a small shred of responsibility for his current situation.

After learning that John has been kidnapped by Olga, Zoe first goes to see an old colleague, and Yuri’s friend, Dominica to interrogate her, then meets up with Yuri, and it does not end well for one of them.  After telling her he’s the elusive Romanov, Yuri informs her of the fact that Olga has taken John and that Worthington is about to use John’s mother as leverage against her.

Not knowing immediately where Olga is, but believing she will not kill him because Zoe will come to her, she detours to take care of Worthington, having finally realised why he was searching for her.  In another of her many disguises, room service visits his room, and Worthington gets more than dinner served up to him.

Of course, Yuri lies. He is not Romanov, and Romanov is not trying to kill her, but find her.

Who is she? Well, you’ll have to read the book to find out.

And, as for Olga, well, hell hath no fury than a woman avenging a woman avenging her son!

…

Day 149 – What really is writer’s block

…

The Myth of the Blank Page: Why “Writer’s Block” Is More Than Just a Stuck Pen

Every writer knows the sensation: you stare at the cursor, blinking rhythmically against a stark white screen, and your brain feels like a locked door. You can’t find the key. You call it “writer’s block.” You blame it on the caffeine crash, the deadline pressure, or a lack of inspiration.

But have you ever stopped to wonder if the term itself is actually to blame?

If you trace the history of those two words back to their source, you’ll find that “writer’s block” isn’t a medical condition or an inevitable creative cycle. It’s a diagnosis—and one that carries a heavy, somewhat dark, psychological weight.

The Invention of a Diagnosis

For most of literary history, writers simply struggled. They had “dry spells,” they “hit a wall,” or they were “out of ideas.” Then, in 1947, a psychoanalyst named Edmund Bergler coined the term “writer’s block.”

To understand Bergler, you have to understand the era. He was working in the shadow of Sigmund Freud, and he viewed the creative process through a very specific, psychoanalytic lens. Bergler didn’t think you were stuck because you were tired or uninspired. He believed that the “block” was actually an unconscious act of self-sabotage.

According to Bergler, writers were suffering from a deep-seated, masochistic drive. He argued that the writer unconsciously sabotaged their own work to enjoy the “self-constructed defeat” of failing to write. In his view, the agony of not being able to finish a manuscript wasn’t a struggle against a narrative problem; it was a psychological compulsion to suffer.

Is This Really About Word Counts?

If we accept Bergler’s definition, then “writer’s block” stops being a productivity issue and starts being an internal conflict.

This is where things get interesting. If you’re struggling to reach your daily word count, you usually look for practical solutions: try the Pomodoro technique, change your environment, or outline your chapters more clearly. But if the problem is actually a subconscious desire to sabotage yourself, those practical fixes will never work.

By framing our struggles as “writer’s block,” we’ve inherited a diagnosis that suggests the problem lies deep within our psyche, rather than on the page. It turns a professional hurdle into a personal failing.

Moving Beyond the “Block”

Maybe it’s time we retire the phrasing. When we tell ourselves we have “writer’s block,” we are giving ourselves permission to stop. We are turning a temporary lapse in flow into an identity—a “blocked” writer.

Perhaps the next time you feel stuck, you shouldn’t ask, “Why am I sabotaging myself?” or “How do I overcome this block?” Instead, try asking:

• Is this section actually necessary for the story? (Maybe you’re stuck because the narrative is heading in the wrong direction.)
• Am I exhausted or burnt out? (Sometimes, the tank is just empty.)
• Is my goal too big? (Breaking a chapter into 100-word segments is far less daunting than “finishing the book.”)

Writer’s block might be a useful shorthand for the frustration of the craft, but it’s worth remembering that it was invented by a man who looked for internal demons behind every closed door. You don’t have to be a masochist to struggle with a sentence. Sometimes, a hard day of writing is just a hard day of writing—no analysis required.

Next time the words won’t come, don’t blame your subconscious. Just close the laptop, take a walk, and remember: you aren’t “blocked.” You’re just in the middle of the work.

…

Day 149 – What really is writer’s block

…

The Myth of the Blank Page: Why “Writer’s Block” Is More Than Just a Stuck Pen

Every writer knows the sensation: you stare at the cursor, blinking rhythmically against a stark white screen, and your brain feels like a locked door. You can’t find the key. You call it “writer’s block.” You blame it on the caffeine crash, the deadline pressure, or a lack of inspiration.

But have you ever stopped to wonder if the term itself is actually to blame?

If you trace the history of those two words back to their source, you’ll find that “writer’s block” isn’t a medical condition or an inevitable creative cycle. It’s a diagnosis—and one that carries a heavy, somewhat dark, psychological weight.

The Invention of a Diagnosis

For most of literary history, writers simply struggled. They had “dry spells,” they “hit a wall,” or they were “out of ideas.” Then, in 1947, a psychoanalyst named Edmund Bergler coined the term “writer’s block.”

To understand Bergler, you have to understand the era. He was working in the shadow of Sigmund Freud, and he viewed the creative process through a very specific, psychoanalytic lens. Bergler didn’t think you were stuck because you were tired or uninspired. He believed that the “block” was actually an unconscious act of self-sabotage.

According to Bergler, writers were suffering from a deep-seated, masochistic drive. He argued that the writer unconsciously sabotaged their own work to enjoy the “self-constructed defeat” of failing to write. In his view, the agony of not being able to finish a manuscript wasn’t a struggle against a narrative problem; it was a psychological compulsion to suffer.

Is This Really About Word Counts?

If we accept Bergler’s definition, then “writer’s block” stops being a productivity issue and starts being an internal conflict.

This is where things get interesting. If you’re struggling to reach your daily word count, you usually look for practical solutions: try the Pomodoro technique, change your environment, or outline your chapters more clearly. But if the problem is actually a subconscious desire to sabotage yourself, those practical fixes will never work.

By framing our struggles as “writer’s block,” we’ve inherited a diagnosis that suggests the problem lies deep within our psyche, rather than on the page. It turns a professional hurdle into a personal failing.

Moving Beyond the “Block”

Maybe it’s time we retire the phrasing. When we tell ourselves we have “writer’s block,” we are giving ourselves permission to stop. We are turning a temporary lapse in flow into an identity—a “blocked” writer.

Perhaps the next time you feel stuck, you shouldn’t ask, “Why am I sabotaging myself?” or “How do I overcome this block?” Instead, try asking:

• Is this section actually necessary for the story? (Maybe you’re stuck because the narrative is heading in the wrong direction.)
• Am I exhausted or burnt out? (Sometimes, the tank is just empty.)
• Is my goal too big? (Breaking a chapter into 100-word segments is far less daunting than “finishing the book.”)

Writer’s block might be a useful shorthand for the frustration of the craft, but it’s worth remembering that it was invented by a man who looked for internal demons behind every closed door. You don’t have to be a masochist to struggle with a sentence. Sometimes, a hard day of writing is just a hard day of writing—no analysis required.

Next time the words won’t come, don’t blame your subconscious. Just close the laptop, take a walk, and remember: you aren’t “blocked.” You’re just in the middle of the work.

…