This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.
Coming soon!
Tag: Fiction
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 104 – We seek him here, we seek him there…
Enjoy
Was it just another surveillance job – Episode 14
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?
Training sometimes was one of those things that went in one ear and came out the other. That accounted for the boring bits, but our instructors called it tradecraft.
I guess I should have taken more notice at the time.
Home was a bedsit in Bloomsbury, Not far from the Russell Square underground station, on the ground floor overlooking the small park. Sometimes, in summer I would sit there and watch the world go by, thinking there had to be more to life than waiting for an opportunity.
To do what, at the time, I didn’t know. But, when this opportunity presented itself, oddly as a rather strange ad in the help wanted pages of the newspaper, I guess the people who put it there were looking for the curious sort, with a sense of adventure.
My first impression of the job was that of a courier who would be required to travel a lot. It said, in part, “must be prepared to travel to different locations worldwide, understand the requirement of confidentiality, and must be able to respond to emergencies that might occur in the carrying out of your duties.”
To me, it spelled courier, though I rather hoped it wasn’t the briefcase handcuffed to a wrist sort and no guns.
After the first interview, I think I had guessed correctly, though, in subsequent training, the word tradecraft put a slightly different slant to the job. That, and the surveillance module, sold to us as “you need to know if you are being followed, recognise hostiles, and be able to deal with them.”
But, it was the notion that we should get out of any habits we had, those that made us predictable to an enemy, yes, they actually used the word, enemy. Like for instance, if we caught the same train, or bus, into the city. If we went to the same cafe for coffee, restaurant for lunch or dinner, met people in a pub on the same day, same time, each week.
Before all this, I found comfort in a regular schedule. I hated being late, except when the transport system let me down. I had a regular stop off on the way to the office for coffee, and usually went to the same cafe for lunch at the same time.
Inevitably I would leave home at the same time and quite often return home at the same time. OK, I was boring and predictable. Now it was a little different, with some variation in departure and arrival times, as well as the places I stopped for coffee, and lunch or dinner.
This day I was very late, after dark in fact, getting back to the flat.
I went in after checking for mail, not that anyone ever sent letters these days, unlocked my door, went in and switched on the light.
The whole of the living space had been trashed. Well, more to the point, someone had checked everywhere it was possible to hide anything, which I didn’t, and hadn’t bothered cleaning up after them.
Had they been interrupted?
If that had happened the landlady would be down in a flash the moment I walked in the door, not to commiserate on my bad luck, but to issue me with an eviction notice. Very little was tolerated in her establishment.
That she hadn’t told me that whoever did this had done it very quietly, and without anyone knowing. We had been taught the same procedures which is why I recognised the signs. This had to be done by my previous employers. The only question I had was why?
I had nothing they could possibly want.
I took a few minutes to clean up the mess so that instead of a thorough trashing, it just looked like the aftermath of a wild party, then went out to get a coffee and think about why this had happened.
Not far up the road was a cafe I went to for dinner if I wasn’t doing something else, and, lo and behold, the minute I walked in the door, there was Severin, sitting at the back half disguised by the evening newspaper.
Obviously, he’d been waiting for me.
Yes, now I understood the implications of being someone who did the same thing over and over.
There was no mistaking the invitation, and, after briefly considering ignoring him, realised that was not going to work. After seeing what happened to O’Connor at their hand, I didn’t want to join him.
I sat down. “I have to say this is an unexpected surprise.”
He put the paper down. “For both of us, I can assure you. I’ll get straight to the point. I want the USB.”
“What USB?”
“That your target was carrying, it wasn’t on him, so by elimination, not being anywhere at the crime scene, you must have it. He either gave it to you, or you took it from him. Where is it?”
I took a minute to process what he was saying. I had not seen a USB, not had he given me one, not was there one nearby. I would have seen it. No need to pretend to be surprised. I was.
“I haven’t got it.”
“He didn’t give you anything?”
“How could he, you were there just about the same time as I was. And after you shot him, he had nothing on him. Whatever you’re looking for, it must still be in the alley, or he hid it somewhere else. And since you shot him, I doubt whether you’ll ever find out.”
He shook his head and folded his paper. “If you’ve got it we’ll find out. and it will not bode well for you. And if you accidentally find it, here’s my card. Call me.”
He dropped a card on the table as he got up.
I picked it up just as he stopped and turned to give me a last look before walking out the door. There was no mistaking the intent, if they thought I had it, I’d be dead now.”
And it meant that the evidence O’Conner was referring to was on a USB. All I had to do was find it. Or Nobbin did.
© Charles Heath 2019
Writers need to have many alter egos, don’t they?
I have often wondered just how much or how little of the author’s personality and experiences end up in a fictional character.
Have they climbed mountains,
Have they escaped from what is almost the inescapable,
Have they been shot, tortured, or worse,
Have they been dumped, or divorced,
Have they travelled to dangerous places, or got locked up in a foreign jail?
We research, read, and I guess experience some or all of the above on the way to getting the book written, but it’s perhaps an interesting fundamental question.
Who am I today? Or, more to the point, who do I want to be today?
Or it can be a question, out of left field, in an interview; “Who are you?”
My initial reaction was to say, “I’m a writer.” But that wasn’t the answer the interviewer is looking for.
Perhaps if she had asked, “Who are you when you’re writing your latest story?” it would make more sense.
Am I myself today?
Am I some fictional character an amalgam of a lot of other people?
Have I got someone definite in mind when I start writing the story?
The short answer might be, “I usually want to be someone other than what I am now. It’s fiction. I can be anyone or anything I want, provided, of course, I know the limitations of the character.”
“So,” she says, “what if you want to be a fireman?”
“I don’t want to be a fireman.”
“But if the story goes in the direction where you need a fireman…”
“What is this thing you have with firemen?” I’m shaking my head. How did we get off track?
“Just saying.”
“Then I’d have to research the role, but I’m not considering adding a fireman anytime soon.”
She sighs. “Your loss.”
Moving on.
And there is that other very interesting question; “Who would you like to be if you could be someone else?”
A writer in that period between the wars, perhaps like an F Scott Fitzgerald or Ernest Hemingway, in Paris, or if it is a fictional character, Jay Gatsby.
He’s just the sort of person who is an enigma wrapped up in a mystery.
From a writer’s perspective
What do you make of this lot:
What happened at a Russian missile site? This is also tinged with nuclear fallout.
The US is consulting with allies in Asia about missile sites. Nothing more inflammatory to a country like China, with whom relations are deteriorating at a rapid rate of knots.
Investors rush to buy bonds. OK, that’s short term bonds not long term bonds, and that, of course, caused an inverted curve, or a preclusion to a recession.
Gold and silver investment is booming, and in times past, this could be a precursor to war.
China has survey vessels in the South China Sea. Why no one knows.
China is also planning naval exercises in the same area. Are they flexing muscles or sending a warning?
They’ve also got problems in Hong Kong, and, so far, there have been some violent scuffles, but nothing like what could be done, like at Tiananmen Square. They have a large military force just outside Hong Kong, conducting exercises, perhaps waiting for the order to quell the challenges to business, travellers, and it’s sovereignty.
And, of course, there’s another flashpoint in Kashmir, which everyone seems to have an opinion, but that had been simmering for a long, long time.
And as for the former world power, the UK, they cannot get past internecine fighting over Brexit.
So, from a thriller writer’s perspective, it means that Russia is rearming, the US is trying to pre-empt missile strikes from China, or is it North Korea, it seems the savvier investors have a notion the world might be on the brink of war, and the US is right in the middle of it all.
The US appears:
- to be in a trade war with China, or perhaps a war of words
- are selling billions worth of arms to Taiwan, a red rag to a bull if there was ever one
- are offering to help out in Kashmir
- are sending ships to the South China sea to show the ‘flag’
- are standing back and watching North Korea launch missiles
- are emphatically denying there will be a recession, at least at home
Can we get a plot line out of all this?
Title: Flashpoint
Synopsis:
A leaked report on a Russian missile base suggests a recent ‘mishap’ with disarming ‘old nuclear missiles’, was more than just routine issue, and a flyover by satellite shows there are more sinister and unexplainable operations in play.
Meanwhile, the arrival of a Russian nuclear specialist and a group of Chinese scientists in North Korea is quickly followed by several missile tests a week later. Are the North Koreans, with the help of the Chinese, looking to arm their missiles with Russian nuclear warheads?
The CIA has sent two of their best operatives to find out what is really going on, one, Sam Stockton, borne of Russian parents, and who has yet to exorcise his demons from the last failed mission, and the other, Elizabeth Chen, a North Korean expert who is coming out of retirement for this particular delicate assignment.
Will they discover the truth before the world descends into a nuclear holocaust?
“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:
“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.
Betwixt metaphorical houses
It’s like working in two offices, one uptown, and one downtown.
I have two blogs, this one, and another which is purely for writing, and generally, a lot of starts and not a lot of finishes. I get ideas, and it’s a place to store them, and give a few people some amusement at my, sometimes, improbable situations and far-fetched stories.
Here I try to be more serious.
I have the ceiling, the cinema of my dreams. Here anything is possible, like jumping from a helicopter about to explode, and survive, and get out of a sinking ship, like Houdini. Of course, there is always one time when it doesn’t work, and Houdini knows that all too well.
Over there, I have a series which I started here, long ago, where I take a photograph and write a story inspired by it. The interesting thing about that is I could probably use the same photograph over and over, and it would inspire a different tale.
I know, if I was running a writing class, everyone would see that photograph differently.
But what amazes me sometimes is the fact the story is not directly related to the theme. It got me thinking about how we view our experiences, and what triggers memories. I’ve discovered that it doesn’t necessarily happen by correlation, say, for instance, a memory of being in New York might be triggered by a visit to a cafe in Cloncurry.
I try to do one of these every day, but sometimes it’s hard work. Writing itself can be some days, particularly when the words are lurking there, behind that invisible, impenetrable, rock wall.
OK, so I’m stuck in the middle of writing a piece over there, and I’ve come over here to whinge.
But, enough. I’ll let you know what the cinema of my dreams is showing, later.
I’ve always wanted to go on a Treasure Hunt – Part 22
Here’s the thing…
Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.
I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.
But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.
Once again there’s a new instalment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.
I was a fool for thinking that I could help Nadia when the whole time she was playing me. There didn’t look like any tension between them, and nothing that would convince me that he had any sort of hold over her.
I cursed myself for my own stupidity.
With a shake of the head, I went over to the bar attached to the beachside restaurant and order a cold beer, then another. The bartender gave me a long measured look as if trying to gauge my age, but I was old enough and had the ID card to prove it.
It was a curse to look so young for that reason, but I suppose, like more old men, I would eventually curse being old. At least, that’s what my mother said, along with the warning I should not be so eager to start drinking booze.
At least I didn’t smoke, though that hadn’t always been the case, and, at times, it was hard not to reach for a cigarette in moments of anguish or anger, like now.
I was on my fourth bottle when I heard someone sit on the stool next to mine. About the same time I recognised the perfume wafting my way.
Nadia.
“So, this is where you’re hiding?”
I looked sideways at her. My first thought was to tell her exactly what I thought of her. That passed quickly. No telling how many of her friends were here, and the thought of facing Vince was not something I wanted to do, any time.
“What do you want?”
“I thought I saw you on the pier?”
“I like to see how the other half live. What’s your excuse?” OK, that didn’t come out exactly how I wanted it to.
I could feel her glaring at me. She knew exactly what I was talking about. At least she wasn’t going to dodge the issue.
“I do what I have to. If it means I have to cosy up to a rattlesnake, then I will.” Delivered barely above a whisper, but spat out with a great deal of venom. “What happened out there?”
“Rico got busted for having a dead body on his boat. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“I didn’t put it there if that’s what you mean.”
“Alex?”
“He hasn’t got the brains for something like that. Not in plain sight.”
That was an odd thing to say, in plain sight. Did that mean they were in full view of Rico’s boat the whole time he was not on it?
“Why do you say that?” I looked sideways at her. Slightly sunburned on the top of her cheeks. No makeup, and surprisingly, she looked very different, not as grown-up.
“The yacht was parked three bays down. Engines were not working again and Alex had to come back and just made it into the dock. Sent down a couple of divers to check the propellers or something.”
“You see Rico on his boat?”
“Briefly. He was with a couple of Benderby’s thugs. They left the boat, and about ten minutes later we left the dock. Alex said some fishing line had fouled the propeller.”
“What happened then?”
“We went down below to have lunch. The Captain took it for a run, everything seemed to be working, and we came back. That’s when I saw you and Rico on the dock and all the police. You in some sort of trouble?”
“No. The FBI has taken over the investigation, and told Johnson to let us go.”
“I’m sure Johnson is absolutely thrilled the feds took over his ticket to becoming the next Sherriff.”
“Why? Is he in the Cossatino’s back pocket?”
“You’re asking the wrong person. This will put a dent in your plan to help me out with Alex. I can’t pretend to like the bastard for much longer, and I swear if he touches me again, I’ll kill him.”
I guess it was easy, for a minute, to forget that her brother was exactly the same with other women, and, when we’d been at school, girls too frightened to say no. Perhaps it was the Cossatino blood running through her veins, that it was alright in some cases, and not in others. “That’s ironic after what Vince has done, and probably still does, don’t you think?”
The bartender stopped and put a half-full glass of straight bourbon in front of her. A nod and the bill was paid.
She looked at me, picked it up and drunk the contents straight down, then said, “You’re a bastard smidge. You know I could crush you like the insignificant bug you are, but I’m not going to. You see, I like you, no matter what you think of me. Just call me once you’ve got over your bout of smug superiority.”
A smile, or a grimace, I wasn’t sure what it was, she slid off the stool and left.
© Charles Heath 2019
Being Inspired – the book
Over the past year or so I have been selecting photographs I’ve taken on many travels, and put a story to them.
When I reached a milestone of 50, I decided to make them into a book, and, in doing so, I have gone through each and revised them, making some longer, and almost a short story.
50 photographs, 50 stories. I’ve called it, “Inspiration, Maybe”
It will be available soon.
