Tag: Challenge

What happens after the action packed start – Part 40

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in, and because of it, he has now been roped into what might be called a suicide mission.

 

I left the others out the front of the hut in Barnes charge, except for Williamson who stayed inside, feigning illness.  If everything went according to plan, a sketchy plan at best, Monroe would slip the diamonds to Williamson, and then melt back into the bush, heading back towards the fork in the road heading to the airstrip.  She would then report on what troops were between us and our objective.

I signaled for Davies to join me.

The commander and the man who’d reported to him earlier strode across the compound to a smaller building that might pass as a jail.  There was a guard out the front who jumped up and snapped to attention when the commander came up the steps.

“Open the door.”

The guard fumbled with a ring of keys, found the one for the door, and unlocked it.

The commander looked at me.  “You may speak to them for five minutes.”

“Alone.  You have my word we’ll not try anything.”

He nodded at the guard.  “Bottom of the steps.  Don’t let them out of your sight.”  To me, he pointed to another building about 50 yards away, “I’ll be there, don’t keep me waiting.”

We waited for him to come down the steps and start striding to his office, then went up the stairs, and I knocked on the door.  “My name is James, and I’m here with Davies to take you home.  We’re coming in.”

I opened the door slowly pulling it towards me, and the odor that came out of the room was that of people who had not been allowed to wash for several days, if not longer.  Once the door was fully open and the interior lit, I could see two stretchers and two men sitting up, struggling with the light in their eyes.

At least they were able to sit up.

Our information was they had been captive now for about seven months, and, looking at them, they didn’t seem to appear to badly off.  They showed signs of weight loss, and pallid skin, but not to the point of being maltreated or starved.

“Who did you say you were?”  The man on the left was about 50ish, grey thinning hair, and I suspect once a lot bulkier than he was now.  There was an air of brashness about him, but that would have been beaten out of him long ago.  Now he was just a shell of his former self.

“Sgt James, and Lieutenant Davies.  Part of the rescue team sent to bring you home.  A Colonel Bamfield sent us.”

“You took your time.”

Th either man spoke.  Younger, a military type, perhaps the other man’s bodyguard.  He had a few scars, so I expect he had offered some resistance and paid for it with the butt of a gun or two.

“We tried once, but it failed.  There were not the people who had been holding you at the time though, were they?”

“No.  If that was an attempt, they were the people who came to ‘rescue’ us, only it was a means for them to use us for ransom.  It’s taken them a while to find the right people.  Bamfield you say?  Who is he?”

“Runs the military’s operations that the military doesn’t want to acknowledge.  We’re here, but we’re not here if you know what I mean.”

The older man shook his head.  “It doesn’t matter.  What happens now?”

“I go and have another chat with the commander.  We exchange gifts, and we leave.”

“You do realize that’s not going to happen,” the military type said with a degree of despondency.

“How so?”

“There are about 50 men here, possibly more, all armed, and all waiting for you to arrive.  I expect they’ll take the ransom and then kill all of us.”

“Yes, I had thought that might be the case.  But, don’t worry.  We have a few tricks up our sleeve.  So, gather your belongings, if you have any, and wait for us to come back and get you.”

“Are you going to drive out of here?”  The military man spoke again.

“A short distance, yes.  There’s an airstrip not far from here, so all we have to do is get there, and we’re halfway home.”

“There’ll be government troops there.  It’s used for people coming in to visit the national park and they provide local security.  Boroko knows the Captain in charge there, and they have an arrangement.  He’ll know what your options are, and you’ll just be walking into a trap.”

That had always been a possibility, but Bamfield wouldn’t send us there unless there was a chance we could use it for our escape.  But, what the man was saying was just another wrinkle in a plan that had lots of wrinkles.

“Provided you get a mile from this place before being attacked.”

“All very interesting points,” I said.  “But, like I said, pack your stuff and let me worry about the details.  Feel free to take in some fresh air while we’re gone.  It won’t be long.”

“I’ll stay,” Davies said.

“OK.”

I took a last look at the two, both now struggling to their feet.  They might not be in as good a condition as the commander had said.  As long as they could cover about half a mile at best, everything would be fine.

I walked slowly back to the hut where Williamson had just emerged, and I went over to him.

He handed me a package that hardly made a dent in my pocket.  It was probably the reason why diamonds were used, small, and easily transportable.  Gold bars would have been a different, and far more difficult, proposition.

From there, I walked more briskly to the commander’s hut and as I approached he came out.

“Everything in order?”

“It is.”

I pulled the package out of my pocket and handed it to him.  “You can check the contents while I wait here.”

A smile, like a cat who swallowed the canary.  A nod to a soldier standing behind me, I could hear the weapon being trained on me.

“I guess this is where…”

A second later the soldier crumpled to the ground, a bloody mess where his head had just been.  A second raised his gun and suffered the same result.

“Call off your dogs’ commander.  I’m sure we both don’t want to see people die needlessly.”

Two hands for a signal to lower weapons.

“Your missing people.”

“Out there, strategically placed.  Excellent marksmen too.  At the moment they’re showing restraint.  It’s up to you how long that lasts.”

He motioned to the guard at the prisoner’s hut to take them to the cars, “Join them, Sargeant James, I’ll be along when I’ve checked the diamonds.”

By the time the two men had joined the rest of the team at the cars, the commander had come out of his office and was walking towards us.

“Three cars, we’ll keep the other.  I assume you’re heading towards the airstrip.”

“It’s one of our options.  I hear the government had a platoon of soldiers there under the command of a Captain.  You might want to warn him we’re coming.  You might also want to warn whoever you have in the field between here and there we’re coming.”

“I can’t guarantee your safety once you leave the compound.  If there is anyone out there, it will not be my men.  We have an agreement remember.”

“Good.”  

While we were talking the others had got themselves into the cars and started the engines.  Time was of the essence.

We walked down to the barrier, and once again he ordered his guards to remove it.

Once they had the cars drove past and then the last car stopped just the other side, waiting for me.

“I wish you good luck, Sargeant James.”

“Let’s hope the atmospherics don’t interfere with my call to my people.  I’d hate to see this place destroyed because of a misunderstanding.”

I hadn’t seen Jacobi since just after we arrived, and he had headed straight to the commander’s hut.  No doubt they had a lot to talk about.

I got in the car, and we drove off.

I was half expecting a hail of bullets, but all I could see was the two guards replacing the barrier and the commander standing behind it, arms crossed, still looking like the cat who swallowed the canary.

 

© Charles Heath 2020

Camp NaNoWriMo – Day 14

The April version of the November write-a-thon is upon us, well, me actually.  I’m not sure hope many others are trying to resurrect an old piece of writing.

The truth is, I’ve been at this story off and on over the past three years, and every time I get a head of steam, something else comes along.

Now I’ve decided to use the April version of NANOWRIMO to get this thing finished, or at least in a first draft state.

I’ve started in Part 3, and went back when I had the time to look at some of the troubling spots again.

Like yesterday, you know how it is when you walk away from a writing session, at first feeling satisfied with what you’ve done, then. as you’re trying to get to sleep, there’s that nagging feeling that you’ve missed something, or there’s a plot hook you’ve missed.  Still got that nagging feeling I’ve missed something.

Today’s word count takes me to the end of Chapter 28 and adds another 3,644 words to a total of 42,877 so far.

 

 

 

 

A to Z Challenge – L is for: life, as you know it, is about to change…

L2020

To say that I was living the dream wasn’t quite how I would put it.

To say that I was part of something bigger, something that was beyond any single participant’s control might seem to be true, but there were always exceptions and circumstances that could alter the status quo at any time.

That hadn’t happened yet, nor was any of us expected anything like that to happen.  You never do.  These events are often random, and come when everyone least expects it, and, afterwards, no one can offer any sort of explanation of why it happened.

But it did.

And, like everyone else, I watched it unfold and did very little to either mitigate the fallout or discover the reasons behind it.

Not to begin with.

The thing is, everything was so normal on that day.

Our neighbourhood was typical of many in the town, a town where it wasn’t that large that everyone knew, or knew of, just about everyone else.  Our street in suburbia was typical of any other street, we all knew the neighbours, all visited each other, had street BBQ’s, all the children played together, as we had when we were children, and there were few new people, that its to say, people who had not lived all their lives in the town.

I and three other husbands took turns to drive to the station and took the train into the city where we worked.  WE al; had similar jobs and similar interests.  The wives either worked in the town or stayed at home, managing a small business and motherhood at the same time.  Our children went to the same schools, most as we had before them.

To an outsider, it might be said our lives were mundane.

I was out the back in the shed trying to fix the lawnmower, a recalcitrant machine at the best of times.  The twins were playing in the sandpit I’d just finished making as part of a landscaping project in a corner of the yard that once had a tall tree.  Lightning from a storm some months before had struck it and did irreparable damage to it so I cut it down.

Suddenly there was the sound of what I thought was a car or truck backfiring.  Three or four loud bangs.  I thought nothing of it until I heard, a few minutes later, three more.  I looked at the mower, shook my head, and decided to investigate.  I was making no progress with the mower and needed a distraction.

I walked up the side of the house, and into the front yard.  I could see several people standing in their doorways or outside on the porch looking towards the end of the cul-de-sac.  When I reached the front fence and looked myself, I could see Ralph Jones standing next to what looked like a person lying on the road, not moving.

There was something surreal about that image, and seconds later, when my brain began to register what I was actually seeing, it was Ralph standing over a body, gun in hand, and I don’t think I could describe his expression.  Hate, pity, dumbstruck, angry.

He looked up and looked from side to side, then started walking slowly towards me.  Two new things registered as I found myself riveted to the spot.  The first, there were four other bodies scattered on the road, the footpath, and driveway behind him.  The other he was reloading the gun with a new clip.  I’d seen the gun before, he showed it to me a few months ago when he bought it, just in case, he said.

I’d asked what just in case of what?  I couldn’t remember what his answer was.

I saw him turn to look towards the Mandelson’s, the next second raising the gun and aiming it at Jerry, who had also come out into his front yard to see what was happening.  Two shots, the second hitting Jerry, and I saw him collapse.

Suddenly, all around me, doors were shutting or people who had come out were quickly disappearing back inside.

It was clear now Jerry had snapped, his only intention was to shoot people.  But, why us?  We were his friends.  We had known him forever, he and I went to school together, did the same crazy stuff when we were kids.  Yesterday, if you’d asked me, I’d have said he was the most normal person I’d ever met.

Now?

I should have run, but somewhere in my mind, I must have thought that wouldn’t present as a target.  Foolishly or otherwise, I thought if I stood still he wouldn’t see me.

Wrong.

“Larry.”

He’d seen me, but as he walked towards me, he’d lowered the gun.  I heard rather than saw Marjorie open then close the door the moment she saw Ralph, and I suspect, the gun in his hand, and had put two and two together.  She may have called out to me to get inside, but I couldn’t be sure.

I found my voice when he stopped about ten feet from me.  “Ralph.  What’s going on?”

“The whole world’s gone mad. can’t you see it?”  He gestured wildly about him with both hands.

I just kept an eye on his gun hand.  I was not sure why, but somewhere in the back of my mind, I must have been thinking of an escape plan, as impossible as that sounded.  Or was I hoping he wouldn’t shoot his best friend?

“Has it?”  I looked around.  It was the quintessential perfect day, clear blue sky, gentle breeze, not too hot.

I don’t think he heard me.

“Mark my words, Larry, life, as you know it, is about to change…”

That’s when I saw the deranged expression on his face as he raised the gun, pointing it directly at me.  And seconds later, watched what looked like his head exploding.

Just before my legs gave out, and in those last moments of consciousness, I thought I heard a scream in the distance.

 

© Charles Heath 2020

Camp NaNoWriMo – Day 13

The April version of the November write-a-thon is upon us, well, me actually.  I’m not sure hope many others are trying to resurrect an old piece of writing.

The truth is, I’ve been at this story off and on over the past three years, and every time I get a head of steam, something else comes along.

Now I’ve decided to use the April version of NANOWRIMO to get this thing finished, or at least in a first draft state.

I’ve started in Part 3, not quite sure about Part 2, only that it still requires some extra writing.

You know how it is when you walk away from a writing session, at first feeling satisfied with what you’ve done, then. as you’re trying to get to sleep, there’s that nagging feeling that you’ve missed something, or there’s a plot hook you’ve missed.

I’ve got that feeling now, and I can see that it’ll be three in the morning and I’ll be back re-reading Chapters 27 and 28, looking for the problem.

Today’s word count takes me to the end of Chapter 28 and adds another 4,604 words to a total of 39,233 so far.

 

 

 

 

A to Z Challenge – K is for: Knowledge can be dangerous…

K2020

It was, perhaps, the saddest week of my life.

It started with a phone call, then a visit by two police officers.  It was about my parents, but the news could not be imparted over the phone, only in person.  That statement alone told me it was very bad news, so I assumed the worst.

The two police officers, standing at the front door, grim expressions on their faces, completed the picture.  The news, my parents were dead, killed in a freak car accident.

At first, it didn’t sink in.  They were on their way back from another of their extensive holidays, one of many since my father had retired.  I’d seen them probably six months out of the last five years, and the only reason they were returning this time was that my mother needed an operation.

They hadn’t told me why, not that they ever told me very much any time since the day I’d been born, but that was who they were.  I thought them eccentric, being older when I’d come along, and others thought them, well, eccentric.

And being an only child, they packed me off to boarding school, then university, and then found me a job in London, and set me up so that I would only see them weekends if they were home.

I had once wondered if they ever cared about me, keeping me at arm’s length, but my mother some time ago had taken me aside and explained why.  It was my father’s family tradition.  The only part I’d missed was a nanny.

It most likely explained why I didn’t feel their passing as much as I should.

A week later, after a strange funeral where a great many people I’d never met before, and oddly who knew about me, I found myself sitting in the sunroom, a glass of scotch in one hand, and an envelope with my name on it, in the other.

The solicitor, a man I’d never met before, had given it to me at the funeral.   We had, as far as I knew an elderly fellow, one of my father’s old school friends, as the family solicitor, but he hadn’t shown at the funeral and wasn’t at home when I called in on my way home.

It was all very odd.

I refilled the glass and took another look at the envelope.  It was not new, in fact, it had the yellow tinge of age, with discoloration where the flap was.  The writing was almost a scrawl, but identifiable as my father’s handwriting, perhaps an early version as it was now definitely an illegible scrawl.

I’d compared it with the note he’d left me before they had embarked on their last adventure, everything I had to do while caretaking their house.  The last paragraph was the most interesting, instructing me to be present when the cleaning lady came, he’d all but accused her of stealing the candlesticks.

To be honest, I hadn’t realized there were candlesticks to steal, but there they were, on the mantlepiece over the fire in the dining room.  The whole house was almost like being in an adventure park, stairs going up to an array of rooms, mostly no longer used, and staircase to the attic, and then another going down to the cellar.  The attic was locked and had been for as long as I could remember, and the cellar was dank and draughty.

Much like the whole house, but not surprising, it was over 200 years old.

And perhaps it was now mine.  The solicitor, a man by the name of Sir Percival Algernon Bridgewater, had intimated that it might be the last will and testament and had asked me to tell him if it was.  I was surprised that Sir Percival didn’t have the document in question.

And equally. so that the man I knew as his solicitor, Lawerence Wellingham, didn’t have a copy of my father’s last will and testament either.

I finished the drink, picked up the envelope, and opened it.

It contained two sheets of paper, the will, and a letter.  A very short letter.

“If you are reading this I have died before my time.  You will need to find Albert Stritching, and ask him to help you find the murderer.”

Even the tenor of that letter didn’t faze me as it should have, because at this point nothing would surprise me.  In fact, as I  unfolded the document that proclaimed it was the will, I was ready for it to say that whole of his estate and belongings were to be left to some charity, and I would get an annual stipend of a thousand pounds.

In fact, it didn’t.  The whole of his estate was left to my mother should she outlive him, or in the event of her prior decease, to me.

I had to put all of those surprises on hold to answer a knock on the door.

Lawerence Wellingham.

I stood too e side, let him pass, closed the door, and followed him into the front room, the one my mother called the ‘drawing room’ though I never knew why.

He sat in one of the large, comfortable lounge chairs.  I sat in the other.

I showed him the will.  I kept the other back, not knowing what to make of it.

“No surprise there,” Wellingham said.

“Did you have any idea what my father used to do, beyond being, as he put it, a freelance diplomat?”

I thought it a rather odd description but it was better than one he once proffered, ‘I do odd jobs for the government’.

“I didn’t ask.  Knowledge can be dangerous, particularly when associated with your father.  Most of us preferred not to know, but one thing I can tell you.  If anyone tries to tell you what happened to your parents was not an accident, ignore them.  Go live your life, and keep those memories you have of them in the past, and don’t look back.  They were good people, Ken, remember them as such.”

We reminisced for the next hour, making a dent in the scotch, one of my father’s favorite, and he left.

Alone again, the thoughts went back to the second note from my father.  That’s when the house phone rang.

Before I could answer it, a voice said, “My name is Stritching.  Your father might have mentioned me?  We need to talk.”

 

© Charles Heath 2020

Camp NaNoWriMo – Day 12

The April version of the November write-a-thon is upon us, well, me actually.  I’m not sure hope many others are trying to resurrect an old piece of writing.

The truth is, I’ve been at this story off and on over the past three years, and every time I get a head of steam, something else comes along.

Now I’ve decided to use the April version of NANOWRIMO to get this thing finished, or at least in a first draft state.

I’ve now got to the end of part 2, and it seems to feel right at this point in time, but who knows what might happen as the editing progresses.

Chapters 25 and 26 have not been as big an ordeal as the previous once, and I’m feeling food about progress.  Nearly halfway, but not halfway through the month which could be said that I’m ahead of schedule.

A quick look at the next five chapters shows there’s going to be some heavy going as they are longer than usual, and may need to be shortened.

Today’s word count takes me to the end of Chapter 26 and adds another 1,808 words to a total of 34,629 so far.

 

 

 

 

Camp NaNoWriMo – Day 11

The April version of the November write-a-thon is upon us, well, me actually.  I’m not sure hope many others are trying to resurrect an old piece of writing.

The truth is, I’ve been at this story off and on over the past three years, and every time I get a head of steam, something else comes along.

Now I’ve decided to use the April version of NANOWRIMO to get this thing finished, or at least in a first draft state.

In going forward I seem to be always going backward.  An oxymoron?  Maybe.

Chapter 24 is giving me a hard time, or perhaps I should have written it better the first time.  So much left unsaid … it means going back to set up, and going forward to clarify

Today’s word count takes me to the end of Chapter 24 and adds another 883 words to a total of 32,821 so far.

 

 

 

 

A to Z Challenge – J is for: Jump now…

J2020

It was 2 am, the ideal time to assemble a team that would be clandestinely boarding a vessel.

Dark and moonless, it was fortuitous rather than planned, and, dressed in black from head to toe, it was hard to see the others in the inky darkness.  At least something was on our side.

Up until this point, we’d had nothing but bad luck, though I was more of the opinion we had a traitor in our midst because some of the events could not have any other explanation.

It had caused me to be far more selective in who I gave details of the mission to.

Each of the four team members had arrived and let themselves into the shed.  It was not far from the ocean, and a small pier where there was a landing craft waiting.  From there, it would be a half-hour trip out to the ship in question, where, if we got close enough, we would either have to go over the side and swim, or pull alongside, but either way we’d have to go up a rope.

A lot depended on the crew member we had recruited getting a rope overboard, and given the luck we had so far, if there was a flaw in the plan, that was it.

Aside from the four people sitting in front of me, there were only three others privy to what was about to happen.  Now, with recent events, it was hard to imagine that one of them could betray us. That’s why I hadn’t completely told them what they were about to do, just that they needed to be prepared to get wet.

“I’m sure, now we’re here, you can tell us what’s going on.”  Robert was the most trusted of my team and my best friend.

“And why all the hush-hush,”  Linda added.  She had been amused at the secrecy and my explanation.

I was never very good at spinning a story.  She knew that but had not questioned why.

“It’s been touch and go for the last week.  It’s why we’ve all been on standby, with this last-minute call out.  We’ve been waiting for a particular ship to leave port, and now it has.  So, without further ado, let’s get to it.  A boat ride, just enough time to gather the courage to the sticking point, and then with any luck we won’t have to go into the water and swim, but a short shimmy up a rope.  I hope you’ve all been working out.”

The boat ride was in silence.  I’d worked with this group before and they were not big on talking.  Aside from the fact that noise traveled over water, and since we had a specially silenced motor on the boat, there was not going to be any unnecessary conversation.

We could see the ship once we reached the headland, and aside from it’s running lights, there were lights where I presumed the bridge was, and several in the crew quarters.  Closer again, I got the impression it was not moving, or if it was, it was very slow.  It was hard to tell in the darkness.  That same darkness aided our approach.

When we were within several hundred yards I could see that the ship was not moving, and, in fact, had the anchor out.

That was not expected.  Were they waiting for us?  Had they discovered the cream member who was working with us?  We’d know soon enough if there was no rope in the designated point, not far forward of the stern, a spot where we could maneuver the boat under the hull curvature.

The driver piloted the boat slowly to the designated point and the rope was there.  He would stay with the boat and wait.  The four of us would go up and collect what we came for.

I watched the three go up the rope before me, waiting for the last to stop at the top and then go over the side onto the deck.  It took nearly a minute before I got the signal it was clear to follow.

It had been too easy.

I went up the rope slowly, slower than the others, something else other than the object of the exercise on my mind.  Not three days before I had a conversation with my boss, telling him that I’d been doing the job too long and that it was time to retire.  Approaching forty wasn’t exactly retirement age, but in this job, lasting that long was almost a miracle.  The places I’d been, the sights I’d seen, and the people I’d met.  And how many lives I’d used up.

It was a dangerous thing, thinking about anything other than the job when you’re on the job.

I reached the top and pulled myself over the railing and onto the deck.  A little off balance it took a moment to stand.  By then it was too late.

Two of the three other members of the team were sitting by the superstructure, heads on their heads, two members of the crew were watching them, guns at the ready, and Linda had one pointing at me.

“I can’t imagine how MacIntyre thought he was going to convince Petra to defect.  Or how this charade of a rescue attempt was ever going to work.”

I put my hands up.  Not entirely unexpected.  “It was not the mission objective.”

“What…”

I was surprised that she had made her move so early.  If it was my operation, I would wait until we were well into the superstructure, heading to the cabin where Petra would be waiting, and then make the move.

Three seconds, three shots, two guards taken out, and Linda incapacitated.  She would not be moving or fighting back any time soon.  The Petra came out of the shadows, and I collected Linda’s gun and stood near her, just in case Petra missed the target.

Petra cut the two other’s bindings, and said, “get to the side and jump now.”

Linda looked up at me.  “What now?”

I shrugged.  “Time for us to leave.”  I gave Petra a nod, and she went over to the side, took one look back at Linda, shook her head, then jumped.

“You’re just going to leave me here?”

“If it were up to me, I’d shoot you, but MacIntire is getting a little soft in his old age.  But yes, I’m leaving you here.  Now, I really must go.”

I took a last look at Linda, who realized that if she moved it would only worsen her injury, and jumped, not exactly my preferred way of leaving the ship.

The boat came up alongside me and two hands dragged me on board, at the same time we could hear the sound of the anchor chain being pulled up, and the propellers creating a wash as the ship started moving.

Job done, and not one that pleased me.  “Let’s go home,” I told the driver, “it’s past my bedtime.”

 

© Charles Heath 2020

Camp NaNoWriMo – Day 10

The April version of the November write-a-thon is upon us, well, me actually.  I’m not sure hope many others are trying to resurrect an old piece of writing.

The truth is, I’ve been at this story off and on over the past three years, and every time I get a head of steam, something else comes along.

Now I’ve decided to use the April version of NANOWRIMO to get this thing finished, or at least in a first draft state.

In going forward I seem to be always going backward.  An oxymoron?  Maybe.

This is the problem of writing a book over a long period of time, things change.  It might be frustrating, but it is making me work harder on the synopsis, so I can get better continuity.

Today’s word count takes me to the end of Chapter 23 and adds another 2,064 words to a total of 31,938 so far.

 

 

 

 

A to Z Challenge – I is for: I don’t think so…

I2020

I think I drew the short straw.

The Superintendent came out of his office and cast an eye over the available detectives, stopping firstly at Plunkett, the current star, the Detective with the best resolution rate, then, after a shake of the head, looked at me.

I was trying to hide.

“Samuels?”

Obviously, it didn’t work.  Another dead-end case was beckoning.

When I stepped into his office he told me to shut the door.  I declined to sit.

He slid a file across the desk and sat back.  “This shouldn’t take long.  Open and shut.”

I knew what open and shut meant.  The last open and shut case cost a detective his job.  It was how the Superintendent got rid of what he called the ‘chaff’.

I picked up the file and opened it.  A man sprawled on the kitchen floor, a bullet between the eyes.  It certainly didn’t look spur of the moment or a lucky shot.

“The man had a history of domestic violence and the wife had enough, acquired a gun and when he pushed her too far.  All she’s guilty of is illegal weapons charges.”

And quite possibly murder.

“I want it wrapped up by the end of the week.”

Dismissed.  I felt like I was back in school.  “I’ll do my best.”

No surprise that Plunkett had noticed our byplay, and that he should comment, “What important work has the Super set you on, then?”

There was no doubting the sarcasm and the condescending tone.  It had also gained the attention of the other members of the squad.  I could feel all eyes on me.

Stage one, the Superintendent gives the ‘dismissal’ case.

Stage two, Plunkett starts the humiliation.

“I’m sure you’re well aware of which case it is.  After all, you have a hand in case allocation, being the senior detective.”

A small change in facial expression, definitely not the answer he was expecting. He opened his mouth to retort, then shut it again.

I simply walked past him, adding in a lower voice, “Thanks for the open and shut case, by the way.”

I had hoped that all but ignoring him would fire him up.  Mercifully it didn’t, he picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and walked out.  The others went back to work.  I had no friends there.

When quiet settled over the room, I opened the file.  There were a number of documents and witness statements.  The previous detective, Robert Jackson, now working in a distant police station where there was very little crime, had come to the conclusion that was a justifiable homicide.

It fitted the facts if you didn’t read between the lines.

I started with the autopsy and the death was straightforward.  A bullet in the head, shot at close range, not a lucky shot, but it was deliberate.

The forensic team had gone over the scene, and those people in the house at the time, the victim’s wife, Imelda Archer, two children Jennifer and Dale, and the wife’s mother, Wendy O’Donnell, all said the same thing, that he deserved to die, and no, they hadn’t seen who did it, but, on the other hand, none of the three had witnessed Imelda do it, only that she had been arguing with her husband, then a gunshot, and then silence.

There were the facts that the wife tested positive for gunshot residue, and the murder weapon had not been found.  It was, at best, circumstantial but compelling evidence.

The building’s residents had been canvassed, and aside from the usual, ‘It’s none of my business’, there was the odd, ‘don’t know them’ or ‘he got what he deserved’.   Most corroborated the time of the shot that fitted the time of the death.  Some offered the opinion that they’d often heard loud and heated arguments coming from the apartment, and later seeing Imelda with lacerations and bruising.

Outside the building, among those canvassed, only one said they heard another bang, one that was thought to be a car backfiring because it was half an hour earlier than the actual shot.  The previous detective discounted it as being relevant to the case.

As a matter of interest, Detective Jackson had run a background check on Archer, to see if he had any enemies, of which there were many but all had alibis, and friends who mostly had little good to say about his wife.  Not unexpected in such a situation.

He did the same for Imelda, and her friends corroborated the story about the brutal husband, and how it was in their opinion if she did it, it would be justifiable.

I read Jacksons notes, his final report and his recommendations, and they echoed the very words the Superintendent had told me.

Sticking points were the earlier bang, which corroborated Imelda’s statement when said she had not shot her husband but had threatened him with a gun she had got from a ‘friend’, whom she refused to name, about a half-hour before she found the body on the kitchen floor.  She didn’t admit to firing a bullet, but it was possible she had.

A gun in the hand of an inexperienced, and agitated shooter was a dangerous weapon, and a shot could go almost anywhere.  I doubted, given the distance she said she was standing away from the victim, she could have hit him.

She said the gun had gone missing when she put it in a drawer after the husband left.

That meant that there were possibly two weapons, or it could be the same one used on both occasions.

Forensics had looked for a bullet in the wall, considering there may have been a first shot, one fired by Imelda when she threatened her husband earlier, if that was, in fact, what happened, but none had been found.

Nor was there any testimony that anyone had seen the husband leaving the flat, or any other movement or sounds from the apartment in the half-hour leading up to the time of death.

This was not an open and shut case.

Then there was another forensic report, still in the envelope with the word ‘copy’ on it, still unopened.  It was dated the day after the last entry by the first investigating detective.

Why hadn’t it been opened?  Had Jackson believed it was just a copy of the first original report.  It didn’t feel like anything more than a single sheet, whereas the first was ten pages and evidently came in a larger envelope.

I opened the envelope and pulled out the single page.  It had a single paragraph and a note that said ‘just thought I’d check if there was a match between the gun residue on Imelda Archer’s hand and the gunshot wound on the victims head.  They do not match.’  The report concluded that there had been two shots fired, one by Imelda that wasn’t fired from the same gun that killed her husband.

“So?”

I looked up to see the Superintendent standing in front of my desk.

“Is it an open and shut case?”

“I don’t think so.”  I handed him the sheet of paper from the previously unopened envelope and watched him read it.

“Sloppy.  Very, very sloppy.”  He glared at me.  “Find the killer.”

 

© Charles Heath 2020