“Friday Fiction” Series: Poetic Justice, Chapters Four through Six…
[Note from Steve: Missing something? For those of you who enjoyed reading my politically-oriented articles about current events in the US and around the world, you’ll now find them at http://pubprogressive.com. Please drop by if you’re interested.]
[Note 2 from Steve: I’m having way too much fun writing these British-style mysteries to stop now. This one combines the amateur-detective theme of Irish writer Declan O’Hara paired with the professional-detective theme of Scotland Yard’s DS Margaret Bent. Enjoy.]
Poetic Justice
Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore
Chapter Four
“Sorry I’m late.” DS Bent took her chair across from Declan after shaking his hand and was immediately captivated by the view of London at night. “Are you trying to impress me?”
“Just hoping you will help me celebrate the sale of my article for a nice piece of change and the sale of a few copies of my poetry book, although that’s overwhelmed by the overall success of that gallery event.”
“Congratulations. No saving for a rainy day, eh?”
“If you think I’m a Bohemian, you should have seen the Brazilian painter, Ricardo Silva.”
“I’d heard about him. Never about you.” That hurt a bit, but he made no comment; it was a fact. “What are you drinking?”
“A Southwick’s ale, but please order what you want.” She ordered a G and T. “I’m supposing our meet here isn’t all for pleasure?”
“Pleasure, except for one quick question about my case, that’s all.” She removed an envelope from her large purse, took a photo out, reversed it, and slid it toward him. “That her? The woman you saw kidnapped?”
He nodded. “Any news about that case?”
“Now we’re beyond one question. Let’s get past the hors-d’oeuvres, at least. I’m in the mood for bacon. Any recommendations?”
“Broiled asparagus wrapped in bacon?”
“You’ve been here before?”
“Two invitations by ‘zine editors. They were using up their per diem, I think. I came down from up north to meet them here. That was before face-to-face meet-ups went out of style. of course. Here’s the waitperson.”
They chatted more about life histories and goals until the dinner ended and they waited for coffee and dessert. He then repeated his question. She told him about Gilby and her boyfriend and their disappearances at the same time.
“That’s too much of a coincidence. Seems like someone was after them both. They might be dead.”
“And here I thought I was the one whom too often is called Ms. Doom-and-Gloom. There are no bodies, Declan.”
“Yet. But that’s segue to a good question: Why bother to kidnap them if they were just going to kill them? Perhaps they had information someone badly wanted. Have you contacted Jamaican authorities? The country’s a commonwealth realm, after all. The King could query the governor directly.”
“Writers always have interesting imaginations. Can you imagine King Charlie doing something so plebeian?”
“You know what I mean. Your top cop talks to their top cop. Probably can’t get it done otherwise.”
He could see that she was considering his suggestion. They were interrupted by dessert.
***
Through dessert and coffee, the conversation changed to become more of a first-date chinwag.
“Where do you live, Declan?” Maggie said.
By then she had dropped the more formal DS Bent for the evening, although he couldn’t remember at what point. He’d taken it in stride he hoped, although she still seemed a bit stand-offish.
“Mostly in public libraries or bookshops.”
“I mean your abode, where you sleep.”
He hesitated. “I have a flat.” He rattled off address and telephone number and told her how to get there from The Golden Goose via the Underground. “I have a combination living-dining room with a galley kitchen on the side which leaves me good space for my music system. I use one bedroom for a study and the other for sleeping. That’s all I need.”
“No telly?” He shook his head in the negative. “Do you cook?”
“Sometimes. Why all these questions? Planning a rescue mission because I’m a witness? Will they come after me now?”
“Always a possibility. Beyond that, one, your answers assure me you’re a reliable witness and not just a crazy, reclusive writer lost in his fantasy worlds. Two, I want to see if your set-up is better than nine. I’m nearer my place of work, but that comes with a lack of space, and I’m guessing the rental fee for my studio is on a par with your place.”
“Understood. I’d prefer that you don’t live near me, though. You might want to bounce ideas off me about a case at odd times.” He said that with a smile, trying to head off a bad reaction. Maggie Bent had a short fuse.
The rejoinder still came. “Don’t you really mean I’d crimp your style with your other female friends?”
At least she said other. “I haven’t had much luck in that department. Some people might even think I’m gay. Even intelligent people often pigeonhole other people in ridiculous ways based on stereotypes. Like, Muslims are terrorists, Irish writers are either gay or sots, and so forth.”
“And plods are stupid. I only know of one gay Irish writer.”
He raised an eyebrow. “At least you recognize the importance of being earnest.”
She laughed. “That’s a terrible joke that probably has Oscar Wilde spinning in his grave over in Paris. I should visit Dublin one of these days.”
“The west coast and south are a bit more picturesque…and have better pubs. Just my biased opinion, of course. After all is said and done, though, I like County Donegal best. It appears you’re well read. I doubt they emphasize that when training plods. My da would consider it a great joke.”
“With the graduate entry scheme, one has a shortcut to detective status. I took advantage of that. I was never in patrol.”
“I bet you’d look good in uniform.” She blushed a bit. “Don’t take that as flirtation. My sis looks sharp in her uniform. She hopes to get promoted out of patrol soon. I think Da is very proud of her, maybe more of her than me. He’s never understood my obsession with writing. He likes my articles, though, a lot better than my poetry and prose. Wanted me to work for The Irish Times. I considered it, but here I am.”
“I was the middle child, male and female siblings above and below. My sisters are nuns and my brothers are priests.”
“Your family must be Catholic too. Did your parents want you to be a nun?” Declan thought that would have been impossible—Maggie was too worldly.
“Mum did. But I wanted nothing to do with that. I wanted to help people more directly, out and about in the community, so I guess I could have been happy as a priest, but the Church is sexist as hell and dominated by old misogynist men…like my brothers! I flipped a coin to choose between EMT and copper. EMT won, so I chose copper to give stick to fate.”
“Aha! We’re kindred spirits in that sense. Da always said I’d never make good money as a writer, that a life of poverty would be my fate.”
“Do you make money as a writer? Beyond what’s needed for this repast?”
“Enough to get by, and it’s getting better, but I fear writing articles will soon take all my time. One ‘zine wanted to send me to a war zone to get background for an article. I turned that assignment down. The Irish had enough war during the Troubles.”
“That’s picking up again, thanks to Johnson.”
“Don’t I know it! County Donegal snuggles up against Northern Ireland. Londonderry is too near.”
Chapter Five
DS Bent awoke to a pleasant masculine voice saying, “Rise and shine, sleepyhead. You have police work to do.”
That was repeated until she smacked the offender, her alarm clock. Damn thing sounds like Declan without the brogue!
In the shower, she thought of the nice time she’d had with the Irishman. Mostly nice, anyway. He was a bit holier-than-thou at times. Maybe too sure of himself? Or he’d let success go to his head. Still, she was pleased he’d wanted to share that success with her.
As she toweled off, she noticed the pool of water in the corner. Damn, the shower door is leaking again! She had a landlord who took forever to fix anything. She’d gone more than a month without a microwave not long ago.
She got the coffee pot going and fixed a bacon-and-cheese scramble using healthy egg whites, pre-cooked bacon, and some questionable cheddar, the latter two not particularly healthy but necessary to make something akin to a good English breakfast. Heading for the entrance to her flat, she opened the door, expecting to find The Times. It wasn’t there. Damn, this day is starting off badly!
She battled crowds in the Tube and made it to work. By that time her euphoric mood in the shower had changed to a foul one. Ezra knew enough to tread lightly.
“I added some notes on Babbitt’s past to HOLMES. Not a bad bloke. A bit rough around the edges. It seems he and Gilby were an item. At least that’s what the receptionist said at the law office. She thought it was all very romantic and the two lovebirds would get married.”
“At their age? We should interview the principal partner there. He might know something.”
“That would be Arthur Heathrow. I made the appointment.”
“I hope his family weren’t the owners of the hamlet and so forth that became the airport.”
“I have no idea. Maybe they were toffs in Lords who cut a juicy deal?”
She smiled. Ezra’s dry Cockney wit cheered her. Her day was going better.
“What time’s the appointment?”
“Ten. Leaves time to take the Tube. The office’s not far from Gilby’s building as it turns out.”
“And The Golden Goose. God help me. We might as well move the whole team to that neighborhood.”
“We could walk, to put a fine point on it.”
“And not make it by ten. I need another cup of coffee. Did you happen to notice whether DI Brown was in?”
“Yes and no. In and then out.”
“Good. He’ll soon be gnawing on my arse about wasting too much time on this case. I dare say, I’m ready to write it off as a Babbitt-and-Gilby elopement.”
“If not for that text message.”
“Maybe the future mother-in-law was after Gilby and someone warned her?”
“You do have an active imagination.”
“And you too sound like my alarm clock, only with a Cockney accent.”
She hustled to the snack room, leaving him wondering about the “too.” As a detective, he took notice of details.
***
The law offices provided evidence that the barristers charged far too much for their services, and the woman Ezra had spoken with was more standoffish in person than over the phone, as if she were a vicious watchdog protecting the property from trespassers. Maggie and Ezra waited for more than a half hour, finally getting in to see Arthur Heathrow, Esquire, at 10:38.
Heathrow reminded Maggie of Cesar Romero in his later years. The only accent he had, though, was a Londoner’s, but not Cockney. He wore a spiffy suit with vest and a starched white shirt. The sleeves had gold cufflinks to match his tie clip, and a chain across the vest told her he had an old-fashioned watch in that vest pocket, probably gold as well. She tried to dampen her immediate dislike, for he was the enemy who made it his business to keep scrotes out of jail—rich ones, truth be told, but low-lives all the same—but she needed him to answer her questions.
“You’re here to inquire about Rebecca Gilby and Ron Babbitt. They’ll no longer be in our employ at the end of the week. Correction: Ms. Gilby won’t be. Mr. Babbitt only works with us sporadically, and it’s always by contract. They’ve been on vacation. They must be having a jolly good time, I dare say, because neither one has shown up here when they were expected to do so.”
Ezra was taking notes, so it was incumbent on Maggie to lead their interview. “They returned. Rebecca was kidnapped, and we believe Ron was too.”
The attorney’s only reaction was to blink rapidly a few times. “Um. That’s your problem, not mine. It’s the first time I heard about that. And only now you’re finally getting around to make inquiries at their place of employment? How efficient the Metropolitan Police are!” He flashed a toothy smile.
“There’s always a lot on our plate, sir, and many people make our lives in the Yard more difficult. Like when we spend a lot of time getting evidence on a criminal or criminals, and legal services like yours put them on the street to create chaos again.”
He spread his hands on his desk. “There’s nothing I can do for you, sergeant. Our clients have confidence in us because we know how to defend them from abusive police tactics. That includes applying attorney-client privilege. I’ll show you two to the door.”
He stood. Ezra stood too, but Maggie pulled him back into the chair.
“Are Rebecca and Ron your clients? If so, why? No one has charged them with a crime.”
“We can represent any of our employees if we choose to do so.”
“I thought you said they were no loner employees. And that requires some paperwork. I’d like to see it.”
He shrugged, sighed, and sat down again. “There’s no paperwork. But as one of their employers, I must protect them as if they were our clients. They’re valued employees, I might add. Correction: Were. We’ll be sending out notices to them soon unless they appear with legitimate excuses for their absence.”
“Would you qualify being abducted by one of your other clients such an excuse? Maybe they’d learned too much about one of them? Is someone holding them who’s pressuring you or someone else at this firm? Maybe someone who you weren’t quite successful in getting off the hook?’
His smile was fake…more a sneer. “You have a very active imagination. Police creating these absurd scenarios is one reason why our clients need good legal representation. Do you have any evidence that what you said is occurring?”
“In addition to stonewalling by people like you, yes, we do. And I’ll be sure to collect more. ‘Good legal representation’ like yours shouldn’t be allowed in your business.” She’d used her index fingers to make “good legal representation” a sarcastic quote. She now stood. “Don’t bother to walk us to the door.”
As they left, Maggie noticed that the light on the PA’s phone came on. Heathrow was already calling someone. He might be a smooth fellow, but he could be in a bit of a panic now. She was sure she was heading in the right direction. She just didn’t know where that road would lead her.
Chapter Six
Declan had what the Yanks would call brunch in The Golden Goose, a lot simpler fare to compensate for the expensive meal of the night before. The pub had even adopted the term, probably in an attempt to appeal to the residents of its chichi neighborhood.
He thought that the previous evening’s expense had been worth it, though, both for getting to know Maggie better and to celebrate his windfall from the article—selling a few books hardly compared to those successes, although the event at the gallery had been a pleasant surprise. He possibly had two new artistic friends now, Ricardo and Esther.
He couldn’t gauge his relationship with the detective, though. She ran hot and cold even with no one but him around. A complicated woman! But aren’t they all?
As he watched passers-by through the pub’s tinted window, he thought he might go to New York one day, a longer trip than Maggie’s jump over to Dublin would be. He wondered if that American city would be as expensive as London, not that Dublin was inexpensive anymore. Joining the EU had its positives and negatives for countries’ economies.
There were many Irish in New York City. He’d heard that some had even supported the IRA, united with their brethren in their hatred of the British crown. He didn’t buy into any of that, though, at least not any longer. That had been a flaw people of his grandparents and parents’ generations had suffered from, and his parents had calmed down after the peace accord and Sinn Fein became less revolutionary. He had finished his article by expressing hope that all that had been accomplished wouldn’t be lost to the problems caused by Brexit, which he’d analyzed extensively.
He wondered if Esther or Ricardo had any friends in New York. He didn’t have many in London, but going to another alien metropolis would seem to require a few local contacts at least. He decided to put those musings aside, folded up his paper, and left the pub, feeling a bit more fortified for some serious writing.
He heard a woman scream before the motorcycle hit him.
He never lost consciousness and was thankful when some passers-by lifted the infernal machine off him. Some nice lady dialed Maggie’s number for him instead of 9-9-9. That motorcyclist tried to kill me!
***
The EMTs insisted on taking him to the nearest NHS facility. His paranoia only increased along the way. He only told the doctor in charge of his case how he felt, though, nothing about his suspicions. She was nice if a bit stern.
“Mr. O’Hara, you’re one lucky Irishman. You landed first on your butt where there’s more padding than your head. You’ll have some Christmas colors there in a bit from the bruises, but you have no major contusions otherwise, and no concussion. It’s possible you have a cracked rib, though. We’ll be doing an X-ray. By the way, there’s a policeman waiting to talk to you.”
Ezra Harris entered. “My Guv’nor sent me. She’s at one of old Charlie’s nicks. I got the hospital run.”
“Interviewing someone, I hope, and not under arrest.”
“One of those barristers’ clients, the most recent one who hasn’t been freed by them yet.”
“I see. I guess you two have been too busy to catch me up.”
“Four, as long as the DI allows it. We’ve made some arguments to keep it going, but they’re weak ones, considering results.” He eyed Declan’s prone form. “Cor blimey, does it hurt, mate?”
“Early hours. I’ve often felt like this right after a rugby match, though.”
“Tell me what happened.” Ezra pulled out a biro and notebook.
“Some low-life on a motorcycle tried to kill me.”
“Didn’t stay around to claim otherwise, I’m told.”
“He left me and the cycle on the ground and scarpered. I think it was a he. Smallish fellow from what little I saw.”
“Confirms witness accounts. Leaving the scene’s good evidence that you might have been targeted. Tell me more about what happened. A patrolman interviewed one witness who saw the whole thing and claimed you left that pub and walked right in front of the bike.”
“Did she say the cyclist scarpered too.”
“She did, as a matter of fact. Even said the bloke revved up his ride just before he smacked you, probably to maximize the impact. Might just be a warning to you, I suspect.”
“For what? Someone didn’t want me to publish my article?”
“No. They want you to stop talking to us about Rebecca Gilby.”
“Who are they? No satisfaction from her employers?”
“The barrister we had a chinwag with was a real arse. Maggie got the idea of interviewing one of his clients. Probably a waste of time. What pillock’s going to grass on his defense attorney?”
“I’m betting you two can read a lot from body language. Won’t she know if that bloke is lying? That’s something.”
“Probably. She already figures the barrister was hiding something. Me too. But now we have something else to follow-up on.”
“What?”
“You, mate, the new victim. Like you, I don’t believe your little love tryst with a motorcyclist is a bloody coincidence, pardon the double meaning. Let’s exercise your great memory a bit and go through everything step by step.”
***
After the DC left, they came and wheeled Declan off for an X-ray. His ribs were okay, just bruised. The similarity with rugby after-effects held true. Maybe not what the cyclist wanted? Two hours later, he was home.
His answering machine light was blinking. He was going to have a bottle of cold ale but then decided against it, worrying that it might not mix well with painkillers. He settled for ice water, and then checked the message.
It was from DS Bent: “Call me.”
He tried, but it went to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message.
He went to his bedroom and found the little book of poems some Russian poet had written—translated, of course, and something would be lost in that translation—but he tried to keep up with other poetry movements in the world. Considering this poet had fled Putin’s paradise, the collection could be interesting, which is why he had purchased it.
He only got through two poems and started on the third when he fell asleep.
His mobile awoke him with a text message. He grabbed it off his nightstand, thinking it might be from Maggie.
He read the message: “I hope you got our message from your encounter with the motorcycle. Next time you’re dead.”
He stared at his mobile for a moment. His suspicions had just been confirmed. It was clear what ‘our message’ was. The question was why. He wasn’t involved in the Yard’s investigation of Gilby and Babbitt’s disappearance. Do they think I’ll identify the low-life that kidnapped Rebecca Gilby? He couldn’t do that until the Met nicked him, but he’d planned on doing so. It was his civic duty. Was the text message from the driver of the motorcycle?
***
Comments are always welcome.
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