“Friday Fiction” Series: Mrs. Blake, Chapter Three…
Mrs. Blake
Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore
Chapter Three
Unfortunately Blake’s mobile woke him. The aroma of frying bacon filled the air, an aroma that could wake the dead, or at least the nearly dead like Blake. So much for the lie-in.
“Thought I’d catch you before you head off to work,” his mum said, her voice on the mobile muted and a bit raspy.
“Want to share a scramble and rashers?” Sally called out.
“Who’s that?” his mum said.
“Just a minute, mum. Be right there, luv.”
“Are you shagging that Welsh lass, son? Good for you!”
“Mum, please. Give us some privacy, won’t you?”
“Only if you’re going at her now. Otherwise, tell me all about it.”
His mum was always worried he’d never give her grandchildren. He thought she also might live vicariously through his relationships, which had been yet another reason to leave London. He loved her, but sometimes distance was a blessing.
“I’m badly in need of some sustenance. Everything okay with you?”
“Couldn’t be better. Leo’s here. I might be getting serious about him. Maybe we could have a double wedding?”
Blake groaned. Leo? He tried to remember. Ah, the Italian banker, Leonardo Ricci. His mum had mentioned the widower who was an extreme example of the adage that a way to a man’s heart was via his stomach. Blake hadn’t been too concerned about Leo. His mum had her flings, but her true love had always been Blake’s father.
“You’re sixty-seven, mum. You always said there wouldn’t be anyone else but Pops.”
“It was hard to imagine meeting anyone who could compare to your father, but I think he would have wanted me to be happy and would have liked Leo. And he loves to make culinary experiments here with me. We sing arias or dance in the nude—”
“Stop!” Blake tried to get that image out of his head. “I’ll call you later. Although you might’ve killed my appetite, I need breakfast before my work day. Love you.”
“Back at you, Logan.”
She was giggling as she ended the call. Leo?
“What did your mum want?” said Sally as Blake joined her. She slid eggs and rashers onto his empty plate. “And what the hell time did you get home last night?”
“Mum just thinks she has to check on me. And we had some success with the case last night. At least we know who the victim is and where she worked.”
He told Sally the story between bites.
***
“You’re looking a bit worse for wear,” Clarke said when she stopped at his desk to hand him a coffee. “We have a lot of case work today. Get settled a bit, and then I want to interrogate Mr. Chernoff. I’ll have a constable bring him from his cell up to the room. Meet you there in ten. I want to talk to the DCI about the gamblers. He moves in some VIP circles, so maybe he’s recognized some names.”
“I got your request and the list,” the DCI said to Clarke when she entered and took a seat. “I know several people on it. All upstanding citizens who are basically harmless idiots. You have to wonder, why bother? With online gambling, you can play blackjack at home.”
“No sweet young things serving you liquor there,” Clarke said, “wiggling their breasts and bottoms.”
He smiled. “Point taken. The ones I know are men. Dirty old men in your mind’s eye?”
She laughed but then became serious. “I’ve no problem with gambling or sexual appetites as long as neither are addictions that destroy families. My problem with men is when they become abusive arses. You know that.”
“Indeed. I did single out one person, though. A surprise. I suppose hypocrisy should be a sin.”
“The vicar?”
“Correct. He preaches for limited alcohol use, love over lust, and the dangers of gambling.”
“Maybe the vicar’s wife drove him to it? But why does that make him differ from the others?”
“Turns out his wife’s sister is married to Ivan Chernoff. Maybe the vicar can tell us more about the brother-in-law.”
“Blake and I are going to interview Chernoff in a bit. Are you suggesting we shake down the vicar first?”
“No. Let me do that. It’s useful information for you and Blake, though. You can tell Chernoff we’ll be interviewing the vicar and their two wives and see what his reaction is.”
“I’d be surprised if he showed remorse or was embarrassed. The vicar might be when you interrogate him. But I’m focused on finding the murderer.”
“Yes, that’s where all our efforts should be directed. Murder is a far worse crime than illegal gambling.”
***
Blake came in after Clarke and took a seat at the table. Chernoff now glared at them both.
He’d waived having a lawyer present, though. His glare soon turned to smugness as the interrogation began.
“Miss Jennifer Adams was waitressing at your illegal gambling site,” Clarke began. “She was murdered. You’re here as her employer, if it’s possible to call you that.”
Chernoff shrugged. “She just had a decorative function. I don’t know the woman. We get all kinds. Eye candy to distract the gamblers and keep them playing, nothing more.”
“Hired help who have to get by with tips they earn serving drunken blokes who pretend to be paragons of virtue,” Blake said. “They must help you paint your bottom line black, what with the minimal cost to your sleazy business.”
“Don’t go high and mighty on me. Online gambling has given us the stick lately. I value the eye candy. My clients prefer live to virtual. You can’t pinch a butt on a computer screen or smart phone, you know. That’s what I offer: Real gambling in the flesh.”
“Do you have security cameras?” Clarke said, disgust on her face.
“I might. I can’t let you have those video files. My clients deserve their privacy.”
Clarke slapped the table, making Blake jump. “This is a murder investigation, Mr. Chernoff. I can quickly get a warrant for those records. And make your life a bit more miserable for not cooperating.”
“You can try.” Chernoff half stood, palms on the table. “Because we’re done here inspector, I’ll be going now.”
“Sit down!”
Chernoff looked at Blake, who seemed ready to jump across the table to restrain him. He sat.
“Do you remember when Jennifer left your den of iniquity?”
“I wasn’t paying attention. The bar closes at two. I’m guessing she left soon after.”
“Anyone follow her?” said Blake.
“I already stated I wasn’t paying attention. Are you two rozzers completely deaf?”
“That’s why we want the video records,” Clarke said. “Because you thought so little of Jennifer that you weren’t paying attention to her goings and comings, or how she was treated by your clients, I assume. We’re betting someone else was. One of your clients who insists on you respecting their privacy. Is that hard for you to understand, Mr. Chernoff, or are you deaf and dumb.”
“By the way, why do you have surveillance?” Blake said. “Maybe a little sideline where you blackmail some VIPs with gambling addictions? Or the roving eyes their wives might not like?”
“No comment.”
It was Clarke’s turn to stand. “We’ll be back. Stay put. Our constable there in the corner doesn’t even like suspects to twitch.”
Chernoff eyed the burly man who smiled and winked at him while flexing his fingers and making fists.
“What a douche bag,” Blake said to Clarke after sitting a cuppa in front of her.
“A smug one. You—” She looked up as a DC appraoached. “What’s your problem?”
“The DCI wants to see you in his office.”
Clarke looked at Blake. He shrugged. “Just what I need. Maybe the media is getting to him about this case. For him, patience isn’t one of his virtues.”
***
Comments are always welcome.
New books. A.B. and I usually publish two or three new books per year. Two novels’ manuscripts are now waiting offstage: A.B. Carolan will start a new trilogy with Origins, a sci-fi mystery that goes far back into prehistory as well as into the near future. Its protagonist is a young STEM girl. Palettes, Patriots, and Prats, #4 in the Brookstone series, finds Esther and new hubby Bastiann back home in London but still getting into trouble. It all takes place in merry old England and Scotland this time. Watch for them.
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
