“Friday Fiction” Series: Poetic Justice, Chapters Ten through Twelve…
[Note 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 Ten
Declan hadn’t been too happy to hear about Heathrow’s murder. Am I next? What’s going on?
He was happy, though, that his Da had contributed some valuable information to DS Bent and provided a connection to someone more active in the Garda’s crimefighting efforts. Perhaps I should ring the old man and thank him? But he’d probably just get his mum, and she’d then be worried about him. He was worried about himself too.
He sipped his Jameson and stared out the bedroom window. The smaller bedroom gave him enough space for an in-home office. He imagined the sergeant’s digs would make him claustrophobic. He saw a mother and child from his same building in the little garden area below the window. He could imagine Bent with her child on one of those swings. Or maybe not?
The detective was intensely focused. Not self-centered but focused on her work. Ezra Harris was focused too, but the Cockney seemed less intense than Bent. Still, they worked well together. Declan just wished they’d close the case.
He was in a state. He couldn’t focus on his writing, worrying about what had occurred. He couldn’t think about Bent either. Anytime he tried either one, he was distracted by the kidnapping or the murder. Was this what it was like to be a detective?
He supposed the experience would improve his fiction writing in the long run. Nothing like being able to observe a real crime investigation, he thought with a smile. He knew that some authors like Michael Connelly had looked for that real-world experience with coppers, but he doubted that Michael had been a tunnel rat like his famous character Harry Bosch.
Of course, he also knew that the adage “write what you know” was blather and twaddle spewed forth by writing tutors who had little actual experience in writing. How could a sci-fi writer know about ETs? How could a thriller writer know about government conspiracies? Their life experience—people met, places visited, and national and world events—might influence a writer’s stories, but a lot had to be left to an author’s imagination…and the reader’s.
Those general thoughts led to other more personal ones: Am I involved in some English-Irish conspiracy? Were Gilby, Babbitt, and Heathrow part of it?
He tossed down the rest of the whiskey and went to his browser. He googled “Irish Rovers.” Most of the information was about the singers who are really Canadian, not Irish. He found nothing about the Irish syndicate.
Of course, you prat, they wouldn’t appear in a Google search! You need the Dark Web.
He knew nothing about that underbelly of the internet that criminals and terrorists loved to peruse. But he now knew someone who did.
***
Archimedes’s partner opened the door.
“Who might you be, mate?” Raul Benavides said.
“Declan O’Hara. I spoke to Archimedes the other day. I’m looking for him. Is he here? His boss said he was out, so I thought he might be home.”
“Out and about. He went to get take-away. I’m babysitting. You can come in if you like and entertain Clarissa while I make us some tea. She’s teething and in a snit about it.”
The two-bedroom flat was neat and tidy except for the toys scattered on the floor. It had a galley kitchen at the front side of the sitting room. A baby girl eyed him nervously.
“Hi Clarissa,” Declan said with a wave. She smiled and then giggled, rolling the wheels of a toy truck in her small hands.
“We try to give her exposure to boys’ toys as well as girls’,” said Raul, tracking Declan’s gaze. “So she’ll have time to determine her gender predilections as well as her religious ones.”
“I see.” Declan noticed that the counter between kitchen and sitting room was set with three place settings. Two stools and a small child’s high chair were on the sitting-room side. “I don’t want to interfere with your dinners.”
Raul shrugged. “We eat early these days. Archie often has to go back to the office.”
“Are you a house-husband?”
Raul smiled. “I guess we both are at times. During the pandemic, I was able to work online from here. I need to go in two days each week now for meetings, but that’s flexible, so I adapt to Archie’s schedule. And Clarissa’s, of course. Doctor and dentist appointments and such.”
“So you’re also a techie?”
“Not as much as Archie, although I make more money. You’d think the Met would value their IT personnel a bit more. I suppose you have a technical question for him?”
“I guess it could be for either one of you now. I want to visit the Dark Web.”
Raul frowned. “That can get you into trouble, Declan. People like Archie in the Met and MI5 agents monitor that now, and it is a dark place to be, so I can’t blame them. Criminals and terrorists use computers as much as anyone these days, maybe more so, and that’s where they often congregate.” He eyed Clarissa who was now trying to decapitate a rag doll. “Let me get her sorted and we’ll take a look. Archie’ll soon be back. We can pretend we’re internet Musketeers, the Athos, Porthos, and Aramis of technical wizarding.”
“Thank you for including me in that famous list, but I’m not that skilled. And who will be D’Artagnon?”
“We’ll have to do without him. And DS Dent can be Milady.”
Declan smiled. “You don’t like the sergeant?”
“She’s okay, I guess. She’s very demanding but not yet a villain. She helped Archie come out in that male-chauvinist environment the Met has.”
“She might agree with you about the male-chauvinist characterization, you know.”
“It’s often Archie’s fault. He lets her take advantage. You know the saying: He’s a victim of his own success. He feels obligated, so he puts her demands on his time over others, and then has to work even harder to catch up. I think his job is much more difficult than mine.”
“And that is?”
“I work for Google.”
Declan smiled. “Considering how the EU is attacking that company, the UK as well, I’d guess your job could be demanding too.”
“I don’t have to deal with the monopoly-busters. Ah, here’s Archie.”
***
Archimedes greeted Clarissa with a hug and a kiss, and then she had a fit when he wanted to put her in the high chair.
Raul made a sweeping motion with one hand. “I’ll get her started. Take care of Declan. He wants to search the Dark Web, King Charlie knows why.”
Archimedes grabbed two samosas for Declan and himself, and they went off to the hall where two laptops were set up on staggered tables. A child’s railing made an effective corral for them.
“Pull up a chair. What are you looking for?”
“Irish Rovers. Smugglers, not singers.”
“Ah, the infamous cufflink. This could be useful for work. I’ve already tried, but maybe you can come at them from another direction.”
“What would that be?”
“Ireland. I did a hurried search about activities in the UK. They’re best known as smugglers. But that old geezer Sean Fitzpatrick told Bent they’ve been around for a while. Any connections with the IRA?”
“No idea. Maybe my father knows. But that’s the general angle I want to check, the Irish side of things. It might tell us something about why I’ve been threatened.”
“Um. Have you considered they’re getting at you for something your father did?”
“Don’t go there. A lot of scrotes in Ireland would like revenge against my father.”
“Of course. That’s a measure of a successful copper. Let’s go at it. While I hammer on the keys, could you check on how Raul’s doing with Clarissa? Sometimes looking after her takes both of us.”
Declan retreated down the hallway until he saw Raul with Clarissa and waved. The baby didn’t see him. She was concentrated on a broken-up samosa. Raul smiled and rubbed his stomach without saying anything. Looks like the child has her priorities straight, Declan thought.
“All okay,” he told Archimedes when he returned.
“We do a lot of take-away because we’re so busy. Probably not good for her or us. We try to make up for it on weekends. There’s a barbecue we can use in back.”
Not vegetarians then. “With both of you working, it must be hard.”
“The good things in life don’t come easy. Ah, here’s something interesting. Take a look.”
Declan read the caption: Sign up now to join the Rovers’ crusade. A gold Celtic cross glistened below the sign-up icon. The crusade was described above the caption: Plans against Irish traitors.
“Shall we try it?” Declan said.
“Why not?” Archimedes was unsuccessful; he needed a password. The one he’d used to even get to where he was didn’t work. It probably came from the Rovers in a round-about way. “I’ll keep snooping around.” He pointed to the other laptop. “Do you have a website? I hear you’re an author.”
“I do. I don’t check it often, just the email I get from the contact page. I have a strong spam filter for comments to my blog.”
“When did you check your email last?”
Declan thought a moment. “Not since I received that threat in a text message. Let me do that.” He went to work on the laptop. “Bingo? An email containing basically the same threat, sent to me via my contact page.”
Archimedes scooted over. “Let me have the controls, co-pilot.” He hammered away at the keys. “Um. This is interesting. The person who sent this is Ron Babbitt.”
“He couldn’t have done. That photo shows him restrained back-to-back with Gilby. This is weird.”
“We’d better call Maggie or Ezra. Let me check on Clarissa and Raul again, and then I’ll call the office.”
After Archimedes talked with Bent, she asked to talk with Declan. She ordered him to stop playing detective and then rang off.
“What’s her problem?” Declan said. Maggie had been on speaker phone.
“She’s got a temper. Or she’s just worried about you. Doesn’t matter. Toning it down and subtracting out the vitriol, it’s probably good advice. I know you want to find out why you’re threatened. We didn’t find out why, but you now know who did it. I can’t imagine that Jamaican being an Irish Rover.”
“I can’t even imagine him sending the threats. He might even be a dead man now.”
“Anyone can send messages using that name. I have at least a dozen email and social media accounts, and can open a new one in any name. The internet is a damn overgrown jungle.”
Chapter Eleven
DI Henry Abbott looked up at his sergeant. “Close the door and let’s talk.” He offered her a tea biscuit after she sat. “Here I thought we’d make this a cold case and get on with something more worthwhile. Bring me up to date, Maggie.”
She did, trying to emphasize progress. She included Declan’s most recent discovery without mentioning him, only Archimedes. Abbott didn’t interrupt her until she took a bite of biscuit and sipped her coffee; she’d brought the mug in with her.
“This case is becoming complex. I hadn’t heard about the Irish Rovers, but I know Sean Fitzpatrick. We worked a few murder cases together. Good bloke, Sean. What’s your plan?”
“I want to have a chinwag with someone in customs, somebody who can point me to a local who’s a Rover VIP. Part of the complexity is that I can’t figure out what Gilby and Babbitt’s roles are in all this. Or Declan O’Hara’s, for that matter.”
“Maintain contact with him. I know he led you to Sean, but he might be involved in some way. He’s Irish. He could be a Rover or a terrorist, you know. The younger generation still harbors bad feelings against the British. It’s an Irish tradition.”
“I’ve read a few of his articles. It seems he’s beyond that, or more the artsy type, judging by some of his poetry. He does the articles more to make money, but they have a more global perspective.”
“I see. Okay, don’t forget Gilby and Babbitt. And with Heathrow’s death, we might be able to justify an examination of his files for the cases involving the Irish on your list. I can help you with that.”
“Thanks. I’m still SIO for the case?”
“You’re doing just fine, and I thank you for stepping up and doing it. I can’t take over, even now with the murder. There’s just too much to do. Keep me posted on developments. Heathrow might have been an arse for his defense of criminals, but no one deserves to die like that.”
She nodded, picked up her mug and the remainder of her biscuit, and left Abbott’s office.
***
Michael O’Hara took a seat next to Sean Fitzpatrick’s desk. “Thanks for seeing me, Fitz.”
Sean laughed, his jowls shaking a bit. “Anything for a co-worker, old stick. What’s up? I had a chinwag with your boy’s squeeze. Not much more I can do from here.”
“They’re not in a serious relationship yet. How’d she seem to you?”
Sean, a father himself, thought a moment, unconsciously combing his bushy eyebrows with his fingers as he did. “She could be a stunner with some makeup, but I liked her, both personally and professionally. Went so far as to aver that police need more like her, good, intelligent women, thinking of your daughter.”
Michael nodded. “No ideas about why Declan’s been targeted?”
“Early days in DS Bent’s case. It might move along now, with the barrister’s murder. There’s the photo of Gilby and Babbitt too. Should put a fire under the Met’s VIPs, I dare say. It’s a complex test for Bent. Her solving it could go a long ways towards a promotion. Has Declan talked about her?”
“No, he just told her to use his name when calling me, so I have no direct comments from the lad. I’ve never had the habit of meddling in my children’s lives.” Michael saw the smile Sean was trying to hide. “Not much, anyway. Their mum does enough of that.”
“Like any good Irish mother does. Do you have any theories about the case?”
“That’s the question I had for you, old friend.”
“Um. I’m not close enough to the case to have any. It just strikes me as unusual Declan’s involved beyond his being a witness. You’d think the Irish Rovers wouldn’t bother.”
“That has occurred to me as well. He’s just another Irish writer.”
“Any good?”
“I like his journalistic-style articles. I can’t stay focused enough to read his other stuff, the poetry and prose. I guess I’d feel better if he wrote in Gaelic.”
Sean laughed. “Always defending the Gaeltacht like an Irish patriot. Makes me happy I studied in England.”
“But you came back to Dublin.”
“Saint Paddy came back to Ireland too, and he unfortunately left a lot of snakes to keep the Garda busy. Not a dull moment.”
“Especially with the Irish Rovers?”
“They’ve been more active thanks to old Boris, so yes, they cause a lot of heartburn. In every Irish port, at the minimum. The only joy there is that customs and coppers from both countries are working together more. Bent’s just the tip of the iceberg. Just yesterday we stopped a drug shipment on the ferry, arresting some plonker Rovers before they could dump the load into the Irish Sea. We manage to win a few now and then.”
“And you and Bent think they’re mixed up in this barrister’s murder?”
“Most likely scenario, at least from my perspective.”
Michael stood and stretched out a hand. “Thanks for the chinwag. Keep me posted on developments. I’m worried about Declan. He might be a poet, but he is my son.”
Chapter Twelve
Maggie assigned Ezra the difficult problem of getting a warrant to access Heathrow’s files. The arguments for that might not sway a judge, though, so she focused on something else: Did Babbitt really text and email Declan O’Hara? If he did, was that photo just a fake? Also, why would he chance that the Met would put two and two together and figure out the photo was fake? In summary, what was his game?
This focus all resulted from Archimedes and Declan’s sleuthing. She first told Archimedes to try to find more information about Babbitt, on the Dark Web or otherwise. She decided to make a visit to the PIs agency.
A gum-chewing Barbarella with silicone breasts was Babbitt’s PA, a woman who was obviously an ornament. She didn’t look at all like Rebecca Gilby. And Laurie Lancaster’s voice sounded like Eliza Doolittle’s before Henry Higgins’s speech lessons. She was harder to understand than Ezra.
“Cor blimey, Luv, the Rabbit never tells me what he’s about. I thought he was on a case.” Maggie showed her the photo. “He’s in trouble. I think that’s Becky too.”
“You know her.”
“Casual-like, Luv. Knew he was shagging her.” She thrust her breasts forward. “Never could figure why. I could give him a real good ride.”
I bet you could, thought Maggie. “Was he working on a case for Mr. Heathrow?”
“Not recently. Those two old lovebirds went somewhere for a holiday. None of my business.”
“Before that?”
“I can’t give out that information. Neither Ron nor Arthur would like that.”
“So you knew Arthur Heathrow well?”
She smiled. “Of course. You might say intimately.” She winked.
“Through cases Babbitt had with that law office?”
“Yes. I guess I can say that. Becky would send work his way that Arthur had. PIs often work with legal firms. Look at Perry Mason’s Paul Drake.”
Maggie glanced at the telly on the wall clients might watch while waiting. Does Laurie watch old reruns out of boredom? “Do you know Arthur Heathrow is dead?”
Barbarella’s jaw dropped and she turned white. “No! Cor blimey. When did that go down?”
Maggie ignored the question. “You realize I can get a court order to review Babbitt’s last case sent to him by Heathrow. This is now a murder investigation. And your employer might well be the next victim.”
Laurie leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “I’m a dedicated employee. I don’t bend the rules.”
“I can charge you for obstructing justice. Or even as an accessory to murder.”
Laurie went white again. “What? I didn’t kill nobody!”
Maggie shrugged. “Your choice.”
Babbitt’s PA thought a moment. “I-I think I need the loo.” She went to the filing cabinet and pulled out three files and placed them on her desk in easy reach. “I need to take my time too.”
Maggie got busy taking snapshots with her mobile.
***
“Even with the murder, the judge is being stubborn. Said he was worried that there are other barristers in the firm.” Ezra leaned back in a guest chair at Maggie’s desk.
“Maybe Abbott will have some luck at higher levels. So let’s look at some of Babbitt’s recent case files. I graced his PA with little white lies about obstruction and accessory to murder.”
“Well done, Guv! Let’s see the show. It might be interesting.”
“Maybe not as much as Perry Mason.” She handed him a stack of papers. “I printed everything out for your reading pleasure. I want two sets of eyes on this to guarantee nothing is missed.”
“I need a cuppa’. Want one?”
“Get some biscuits too. This might take a while.”
He returned with both tea and biscuits, and they began their homework. Ezra started taking notes; Maggie trusted her memory. She thought of Declan’s comment. She wouldn’t have minded having him there reading too. He might find nuances that neither Ezra nor she would. She sighed.
She finished first, primarily because Ezra had been taking notes. He looked up and smiled when he was done.
“We have the Irish Rovers connection. Earliest case. The Crown vs. William O’Reilly. Rover who’s a UK citizen, smuggler extraordinaire.”
“Indeed,” Maggie said. “But what does it mean? Did Heathrow’s firm win the case or not?”
“Should be easy to check that in the judicial records. Might still be pending, though.”
“In any case, Billy O’Reilly’s here in the UK. We need to talk to him.”
“No light shed on O’Hara’s threats, though.”
“That troubles me. How could Babbitt send them if he’s been abducted with Gilby? But let’s take one thing at a time. We need a chinwag with Billy.”
***
The jailor brought O’Reilly into the interrogation room, sat him down in the iron chair, and secured his leg and arm irons. Maggie and Ezra faced him.
“Just what I need,” the smuggler said, “more rozzers. What the hell do you plods want?”
“We’re not here to entertain you, that’s certain,” Maggie said. “I’m DS Bent and my companion here is DC Harris. We’re here seeking information. We might help make your stay here more comfortable in exchange for it.”
“Promises, promises, and mostly false ones. I’ve heard them all my life. Let’s hear what you’re offering, lady.”
“A private cell, conjugal visits, extra fags,” Ezra said. “We can’t do much more than that. The Crown Court only allows so much.”
“Some candy and popcorn would be nice. After giving me four years here, here’s what I think of King Charlie and his feckin’ justice system.” O’Reilly made an obscene gesture. “And I’d go out of here in a body bag if I grassed on someone.”
“Understood,” Maggie said, “but no one need know. And it’s rather general information we need.”
He eyed her. “What about?”
“A name. Arthur Heathrow. Your barrister. Does he have connections with your gang?”
“He’s the pillock who screwed up my defense. I’ll go after him when I get out.”
“That might be difficult,” Ezra said. “He’s dead.”
O’Reilly shook his head. “Obviously I didn’t have anything to do with that.”
“How did he screw up your defense?” Maggie said. “Weren’t the Irish Rovers paying him enough?”
“None of your business.” O’Reilly pushed himself up halfway and leaned in to Maggie. “And I don’t know a damn thing about no Irish Rovers.”
“What about Ron Babbitt? Rebecca Gilby?”
O’Reilly sat down again. “Babbitt and Gilby work for Heathrow’s law firm. I’ve only had conversations with the woman. Babbitt is a PI on retainer who was supposed to dig up stuff to help my case, like come up with witnesses to say I wasn’t anywhere near where the plods said I was. Stuff like that. I’ll go after him now instead.”
Maggie shoved the photo towards O’Reilly. “Any idea what’s going on here?”
He examined the photo and laughed. “Looks like I won’t need to take care of Babbitt either. He’s in big trouble. I’m sorry ’bout the woman.”
“We believe the Irish Rovers have them, and we want to know what they want in return. They must want something. The only body we have is Heathrow’s. How do we contact them? They haven’t made any demands.”
“Bollocks! That’s not their style!”
“I thought you didn’t know a damn thing about them,” Ezra said.
“Okay, okay. But they won’t diddle with a good thing.”
“Meaning?” said Maggie.
“Meaning Heathrow’s firm does a good job for us as far as I know. The Rovers might off Heathrow if he didn’t, but Gilby and Babbitt are just hired help. They wouldn’t bother with them. And, as far as I know, Heathrow always delivered as best he could. I just don’t think they spent enough time on my case, that’s all. Fact is, I doubt the Rovers would do him for screwing up my case. I sort of did that by being careless.” He looked around at the guard who was playing a video game on his mobile then back at Maggie and Ezra. “That’s all that I’m saying.”
“So the Rovers are just little angels?” said Maggie with a smile. “Any idea about who might have murdered Heathrow and kidnapped Gilby and Babbitt?”
“That law firm has other clients, some far worse, I ‘spect. The Rovers are just Irish businessmen. You hounds are barkin’ up the wrong tree.”
***
In the car, Maggie and Ezra sat a bit to let out the tension they’d both carried out of the prison. He opened a pack of pork crackles and offered her some. They both got lost in their thoughts for a few moments.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” she finally said.
“You’re the boss, Guv. What’s your take?”
“I believe he is, at least about the Irish Rovers having nothing to do with Heathrow and friends’ recent problems. Could that cufflink be a plant?”
“Something to mislead us? Could be. That takes us back to zero, basically. Cor blimey! That could be frustrating.”
“That’s what this case has been from the start.”
“I notice that you didn’t mention the messages to Declan or the attack on him. Any reason?”
“That just adds to the mystery, and O’Reilly probably doesn’t know anything about that. And we haven’t established any connection between Declan and the Rovers. It’s almost as if we have three separate and unrelated cases.”
“What else could someone be warning Declan about?”
“He does at least provide a bridge across the Irish Sea from Dublin to London.”
“At least to Liverpool. Is it possible he knows something and doesn’t realize it? Poor bloke’s probably involved some way and doesn’t even know why. Maybe someone’s payback against his father? Or even his sister?”
“They don’t seem to be directly involved with the Rovers. Fitzpatrick’s the plod with that task now. And, like I said, it’s not clear the Rovers are involved in any of this mess.”
“If we believe O’Reilly. I found the scrote believable, though.”
“Let’s return. We can at least rally the troops.”
***
Comments are always welcome.
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