The North-Counties Tale

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Preface

Readers of the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series know Esther inherited a castle up by Edinburgh in the first novel of that series. She and her husband, Bastiann van Coevorden, have managed to repair it and make it into a comfortable retreat, more for summertime use. In this story, she receives a call from Bastiann to help find some stolen paintings.

Enjoy.

Prologue

Klaus knew the owner of the mansion and his family had gone to Antwerp for the holidays, a more muted event for the world’s Jews who usually still took the time off. The jeweler had retired, left his business in that Dutch city to his son, and was now visiting with his son’s family. The staff at the mansion had gone home for Christmas, leaving it to the holiday frolicking by ghosts from its past.

Klaus figured the old Dutch Jew had a few jewels in the house just west of Morpeth and Newcastle. He’d determined there were never any guards, so he expected a security system and a safe. The security system had been no problem. It took him a bit longer to find the safe.

He’d ambled around the second level, the squeaks from his trainers on the polished wood floors echoing around the house. He expected the safe to be in one of the many bedrooms. It wasn’t. The third level contained an attic and servants’ quarters.

So he’d explored the first level. He’d been about to descend to the basement when a niggling thought stopped him. Something wasn’t right about the study. He went back to take it all in while standing at its entrance. One wall displayed trophies from the daughter’s equestrian events; he thought she now lived in Australia. That wall seemed to be wasted space if all it was used for was to display a half dozen second- and third-place finishes in a toff’s sport.

He found a switch buried behind some books at the end of the shelf closest to that wall. He threw it, and half the wall moved forward a bit and slid over the other half.

A vault, not a safe! He smiled, imagining the jewel cache that awaited his greedy fingers. This heist had taken a positive turn from nicking the formal dining silver to stealing a mountain of jewels.

The lock mechanism was a modern keypad. It would be easier to open than the traditional combination where he’d have used a stethoscope. He took the little electronic device from his kit instead and went to work.

Chapter One

Detective Inspector Harold Gregg watched the SOCOs from the entrance to the study with his sergeant, Tim Shaw. Gregg was frowning; Shaw’s expression was neutral. Both had needed to rise earlier than normal to drive the nearly twenty miles west from Newcastle to the mansion, the largest residence among a few clustered around a small village.

“We’ll need the owner to make an inventory,” Shaw said.

“Adjuster will be arriving,” mumbled Gregg. “We got his number from the owner. The old Jew mightn’t even know what he had in there, but the insurance company will.”

With the heavy vault’s open door, both thought the thief wouldn’t have bothered with searching the rest of the sprawling house. And no one would have a safe like that without something of value to put into it. At the moment, they had no idea what that might have been.

The lead SOCO approached them. “Curious thing about that vault, Guv,” he said. “Damn thing is climate-controlled—temperature, humidity, and circulating air are monitored somewhere. We’ll find that.”

“Maybe via a mobile, so maybe not?” Shaw said.

Like many young coppers, Gregg thought Shaw was addicted to his moby. “Could be a hideaway,” he said. “Jews needed some with that madman Hitler. And the way this country’s going….”

“Not enough room,” said the SOCO. “Probably only to safeguard very valuable things, I’d imagine.”

“I can’t guess what would require climate control,” Gregg said.

“That’s because most police don’t place any value on art,” a voice behind them said.

Gregg spun around to come face-to-face with a tall woman, old and elegant now, even in sweats and trainers, but probably a stunner when young.

“You’re the adjuster?”

“Insurance might be called my game, but I do my adjusting in other ways. My name’s Esther Brookstone. My husband called and asked me to look into this heist. We’re friends with the owner.”

***

“So this owner, this Ezekiel Grossmann called your husband, he called you in Scotland, and you drove down?”

Brookstone had tucked into her breakfast, saying little before, now even less. Gregg figured she was protective of the mansion’s owner for some reason more than just friendship. Shaw’d already confirmed she was ex-Scotland Yard, once in the Art and Antiques Division. She now owned a gallery in London.

She took a long sip from her coffee as she studied the DI. “Zeke’s an old friend, like I said.” She showed Gregg and Shaw her engagement ring. “He gave my husband a good deal on this. A while ago, that was. Bastiann’s in Southampton now.”

Bastiann van Coevorden. Possibly a Dutch name. Maybe that was the connection with the jeweler? “Into shipping is he?” Gregg said instead.

Unlike Gregg, Shaw had joined Esther in breakfast. But he was listening to the conversation. Gregg only had coffee and toast. He was getting to the age where he had to watch what he ate. Traditional plod food put the pounds on.

“He and his colleague are chasing some illegal arms traffickers. They’re ex-Interpol and now MI5 consultants.” She smiled at the two coppers. “Needs must, you know. The elderly must keep busy at something to try to stay young.”

Shaw glanced at Gregg, whose slight frown caused by the impertinence of the old woman had now turned into a scowl. He was thinking they needed to know a bit more about this energetic wrinklie and her husband. The north counties were a bit provincial, even Newcastle, but the rest of the world did exist.

“So this Ezekiel kept paintings in that safe?” She nodded, breaking the yolk so it would flow over her toast. “Could you make a list for us?”

“No, but the adjuster can. The vault was specifically designed for them, of course. I understand some were purchased, others family heirlooms recovered from illegal buyers of paintings stolen by the Nazis. Zeke lost most of his family in the Holocaust. He was in England all during the war. The family had always invested in art. Zeke has carried on with that tradition.”

“I see.” He really didn’t. He had no love for art and hated museums, the latter a waste of the precious little time he had off. “And I suppose you’re going to be here annoying us, not letting us go about our investigation in peace.”

“I’ll take any abuse from plods for a friend,” she said with a smile. “I know you’re uncomfortable with that, inspector, but why don’t we agree to collaborate? Let’s just say I have some experience in recovering stolen art.”

***

Unfortunately Gregg discovered that she had more experience than anyone on the Newcastle Police force. He had to listen on the phone to some of the woman’s exploits from someone named George Langston at the Yard who had once been her chief. Langston encouraged Gregg to bite the bullet and accept Brookstone’s help. He reluctantly decided to do so.

“We closed down a large network that trafficked in stolen art,” she told him, “among other naughty mischief, but it’s still a worldwide problem. Many buyers wishing to own something only their eyes can see create the market for stolen art. Some less selfish and legitimate owners have to pay ransoms to get their artwork back. With the pandemic, thieves saw it as gainful employment, and that uptick has yet to diminish.”

”Do you think the old Jew’s paintings are still in the country?” Shaw said.

“Probably. With Brexit, smuggling has become a bit riskier. What’s also likely is that our thief has probably already passed the paintings on to someone else who will hold…um, let’s call it a private auction. We still need to find the thief, of course, to know who that auctioneer is. That’s your job.”

“Seems like stealing art might not be as common as other heists,” Gregg said. “That might be easy by reducing the number of possible suspects. I expect you or Chief Langston has a list of known art thieves?”

“Um, you probably won’t get off so easily. Because of Zeke’s old profession, the thief was probably looking for jewels. He knew exactly when the house wouldn’t be inhabited. He’s a cat burglar looking for items to fence, a very good one. He was probably disappointed he only found artwork in that vault, but he had the presence of mind to steal it. If it’s in a vault, it’s valuable.”

Shaw was nodding, and Gregg felt a bit embarrassed he hadn’t come up with that.

“You’ll have to cast a wide net for burglars of mansions, from Cumbria to Northumberland. It’s someone skilled who looks for the big heist.”

“Could he be someone just released from gaol?” Shaw said.

“Yes. And someone who’s still the guest of King Charlie could know about him, so include all those in your net too.”

“And where does that leave you in helping us?” Gregg said with a growl.

“I think Chief Langston would probably like working with me than with you. I can get access to all their records and agents. And then there’s the MI5 and NCA, where I know a few people too. We’ll find the thief, inspector, and we’ll find the paintings for Zeke. We must work as a team.”

***

Gregg’s team had met in a small briefing room in Gregg and Shaw’s Newcastle station. Gregg was wondering what he was getting into all the time his crew debated and parceled out tasks. The inspector was controlling, but he didn’t think he could control Brookstone. He’d have Shaw find out more about this impertinent woman. That might be a waste of time, but at least he would know where he stood.

Later that day, Shaw entered the office.

“The net for jewel thieves is cast. I have a list of ones currently in prison. If we eliminate a lot of the petty heists, the list isn’t that large, like you implied, Guv.”

“What did you find on Brookstone?”

“A bit famous, the old witch is. She thwarted an ISIS attack on London, helped nick a drug cartel leader, and brought down a sex trafficking network. Lots of other information there, but it’s mostly classified.”

“Um. None of that’s about art.”

“The sex trafficking network was; they also trafficked in art. And somehow that ISIS attack was involved with a stolen Rembrandt. She brought down an organization that sold fake art to ingenuous cruise ship passengers too, and recovered some famous bust for the Italians. I’ll leave you a printout.”

“You’re good with her participation then?”

“I guess.”

“I’ll confirm it with the super, but I suppose she could be useful.”

Gregg hoped not, though. And he certainly didn’t want the Yard, MI5, or NCA to butt in.

Chapter Two

Esther got a hotel room in downtown Newcastle. It wasn’t that far a drive down the road to the duke’s castle, but there was a chance Freddy March wasn’t there, and Esther didn’t want to impose on the duchess. Besides, she thought she might be coming and going a lot.

She took tea that afternoon in the hotel’s dining area. Her first call was to Jeremy Brand, nominally her husband and Hal Leonard’s boss, but an old friend from her days in MI6. He was now in MI5.

“I just know this isn’t a social call.”

“So Bastiann warned you I’d be calling?”

“Guilty as charged. Something about stolen art? What’s going on? Another obsession?”

She explained who Zeke was and that his valuable artwork had been stolen.

“Seems like a case that’s perfect for you, Esther. What can I do to help? Unofficially, of course.”

“Any way you can correlate trips abroad with known art thieves?”

“Thieves with form leaving the country? You’re thinking they’re exporting the paintings to EU buyers? Hard to do that now after Brexit, but not impossible, I suppose. I can put Ambreesh on it.”

Esther nodded. Ambreesh Singh was a techie in MI5 and also a friend of Esther’s. “I rather doubt the thief or thieves would risk that, so maybe a list of the usual suspects, representatives of sultans, emirs, and what not who have entered the country.”

“For an illegal auction? It probably won’t be that easy, but I’d include Russian oligarchs, if I were you. All those invest in valuable property, whether real estate or artwork. Before we know it, they’ll own Buckingham Palace. They’re vultures picking the meat off the bones of a dying UK.”

She laughed. “On that cheery note, if you can think of any other way to help, ring me. I’m going to call George now.”

“Say hello to that old stick. I have to admire the bloke. He tolerated your antics for many years.”

“And you didn’t?”

“I was younger when we were going back and forth to East Berlin. My patience was a lot better then.”

“Back at you. Have a good day, Jeremy.”

***

George Langston, who had taken over as head of the Art and Antiques Division because Esther had hated that post, was her Dr. Watson. He had chronicled some of her adventures. What he hadn’t been sure about, he made up. Esther thought that was clever of him, but there were minor errors. Her marrying Bastiann had caught Langston by surprise, though. Ke and his wife stopped in her gallery now and then to make sure her employees hadn’t created any problems. That gallery and Bastiann’s consulting, along with their pensions and savings, kept them afloat. Her latest adventures were without pay, of course, but she’d done everything willingly, including the work she was currently doing for Zeke. She thought it was smart of him not to trust a private investigator, which many people would do, and he had never put much trust in authority with his family history.

Read the rest of this entry »

Note from Steve: Sometimes it happens that I’ll write an article that’s appropriate for both my blogs, this one and my political blog. That will usually mean the message contained therein goes beyond writing. I hope this short one resonates.

***

Okay, you’ve probably heard many renditions of this song, but Reuben and the Dark’s provides us with a different meaning of this classic. (Forget about the snippet heard on that Celebrity Cruise ad and listen to the entire version.) That Canadian group expresses almost a pantheistic love for Gaia, a primitive vision of the planet’s ecosystem that provides sustenance for all flora and fauna, including us. It’s wistful at the beginning, reminding us of how we’re damaging our only home’ but, after a glorious crescendo, becomes a celebration of how truly wonderful it is.

I’m sure that’s not what Celebrity sees in the song, but it might represent what Captain James T. Kirk (William Shatner) saw in his ten-minute view of Gaia from space, as many true astronauts have seen before from the International Space Station.

Thanks to the immoral Senator Manchin, champion of the fossil-fuel industries, evil will continue to be unleashed against Gaia. Hopefully he and others like him will have a special place in hell for all eternity. They deserve it. As long as such people walk this good Earth, the planet will never be safe!

It still is a wonderful world. We must vanquish the forces of evil and take care of it. That’s a moral obligation each and everyone of us has irrespective of religion or creed. Global warming, extreme weather events, and species extinction aren’t hoaxes. They’re warnings we haven’t heeded, and we and future generations will pay dearly if we continue to ignore the health of our planet.

***

Comments are always welcome.

Gaia and the Goliaths. This last novel (so far!) in the “Detectives Chen & Castilblanco” series is my only novel with an environmental theme. Russian and US fossil-fuel conglomerates are the villains, environmental activists are the victims, and Chen and Castilblanco’s homicide case that begins in NYC expands to involve a conspiracy of national and international proportions. This story also highlights much of the environmental debate currently going on and has the crime-fighting duo doing their best scrambling yet! Available wherever quality ebooks are sold.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Don’t think miracles are happening when I say that I finally found a NY Times “Book Review” issue that wasn’t better suited to paper the bottom of a bird cage. The October 24^th issue celebrated 125 years of the “Book Review,” a self-congratulatory pat on the back to the Times (I suspect no one else much cared). Still, as much as I hate the “Book Review” in general and its stupid formula to determine “bestsellers” that they guard as closely as Coca-Cola’s (and equally toxic), and their critics whose blather and twaddle serves the Big Five NYC publishers, I’m also a fan of history. (Strangely enough, I read more history than historical fiction.) Or is this issue just self-serving nostalgia? No matter; I perused this issue out of curiosity. (As an ex-scientist, this old tomcat is still curious.)

There are some old reviews, interviews, and essays in this issue that are worth noting, among them a review of Conan Doyle’s The Lost World (1912), an interview with Ralph Ellison (1952), and a few others. Also contained therein is the “First Bestseller List,” which, if anything, proves that the Times has consistently featured very little that appeals to my reading tastes.

But I found an essay by Kurt Vonnegut, “On Writing Science Fiction” (1965), that was perfectly delightful. (Hmm. The other two articles noted above also indicate my interest in sci-fi—Ellison wrote The Invisible Man.) Of course, I was just a freshman in college when Vonnegut’s essay was originally published, so it’s not remarkable that I missed it. I’d written my first sci-fi novel and some sci-fi short fiction before that, but I trashed the novel when I left for college; the short fiction either was packed away in boxes in my mother’s attic or lost.

Vonnegut has always been a hero of mine, mostly for his essays. A Man without a Country (on my bookshelf, both my physical one and the web page) is a classic collection of his essays—irreverent, cynical, and anti-status-quo opinion pieces, many about reading, writing, and publishing that often point out how stupid human beings can be (Einstein had the right idea there). I’m now wondering if I’d even written any sci-fi if I’d read his essay on sci-fi before starting on my publishing journey!

Like many of his essays, the one reproduced in the special edition of the “Book Review” is full of cynical commentary, most of it as true today as in 1965, if not more so, except for his laudatory comments (for Vonnegut) about ‘zines, Playboy in particular (okay, maybe “laudatory” isn’t the right word, especially for Playboy). (‘Zines now are useless for publishing short fiction, and anthologies and collections never sell well either.)

Vonnegut clearly didn’t want to be pigeon-holed as a sci-fi writer; I don’t either. In fact, I’ve probably written more mystery/thriller stories than sci-fi ones. (I’m double-counting here—for example, the “Clones and Mutants” and “Mary Jo Melendez” trilogies.) I’d like to amplify Vonnegut’s main points that go beyond the “sci-fi writer” label.

First, “writer” is too general a descriptor for what Vonnegut was, or I am. A writer can be anyone who uses language. A person writing for an ad agency or a greeting card company is a writer. “Storyteller” and “essayist” is a bit more specific yet general enough to describe what he did and I do. If you think there’s too much technology and science in some author’s stories, go ahead and call them sci-fi if you like, but they’re often just stories about human beings (or ETs)—the characters—doing some interesting and/or remarkable things—the plots. And I’d never call an essay—for example, this one—sci-fi!

So Vonnegut’s main point about storytelling is one I harp on a lot: Genres are just some key words now, among many others, used to describe stories storytellers tell. He doesn’t say this explicitly, but it’s implied and explains why he doesn’t want to be called a sci-fi writer.

In any case, I’ll keep Vonnegut’s essay around, if not this whole issue of the “Book Review.” There aren’t that many storytellers and essayists who have motivated me to tell my own stories and write my essays. Vonnegut is one of them.

***

Comments are always welcome.

Gaia and the Goliaths. This last novel (so far!) in the “Detectives Chen & Castilblanco” series is my only novel with an environmental theme. Russian and US fossil-fuel conglomerates are the villains, environmental activists are the victims, and Chen and Castilblanco’s homicide case that begins in NYC expands to involve a conspiracy of national and international proportions. This story also highlights much of the environmental debate currently going on and has the crime-fighting duo doing their best scrambling yet! Available wherever quality ebooks are sold.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Note from Steve: Missing my political posts? This blog now only has articles about reading, writing, and book publishing. You will find the missing political posts at http://pubprogressive.com; they’re still commentaries on social issues, politics, and other topics of concern that have more to do with my concerns as a US citizen and not my writing life. Please take a look.

***

The Novice

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Preface

Readers who have followed Esther Brookstone’s adventures in the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series know that her current husband, Bastiann van Coevorden, ex-Interpol agent and MI5 consultant, is her fourth husband. In those novels, flashbacks and background material refer to the previous ones, as well as to her time in MI6, sandwiched between Graham, husband number one, and Alfred, husband #2. In this sense, this short story is a prequel to all those prequels.

Readers might also remember Jeremy Brand from those novels. This story is about how the long association between Esther and Jeremy began. She didn’t meet Bastiann until much later. The novels are the chronicles of their adventures together, and Jeremy plays a role in most of them.

Enjoy.

r/Steve

***

Jeremy Brand didn’t know how to handle Esther Brookstone. The young spy was clever, enthusiastic, and productive, but she took too many chances. She was also a stunner who could catch the wandering eye of any Stasi agent looking for a conquest, much to his peril, at least in job standing.

He saw her waiting on the bench reading a newspaper. It would be in German, of course, and printed with dirty ink that would soil those delicate hands with the long fingers of a concert pianist. She spoke the Teuton tongue like a native, even capturing a bit of the East German manner of forming efficiently constructed sentences. Her writing was also educated German prose as if she were an intellectual who supported the East German ruling classes…or was one of their members.

Today she was blond. Her name during this first sojourn into East Berlin was Gretchen Lange. She was nearly as tall as he was, and even dressed in a modest blouse, sweater, and skirt, was every bit the demure fraulein. He took a seat beside her, at the other end of a bench, as if he were a young man trying to approach a young, pretty woman, and being a bit shy about it.

“A dreary day, fraulein,” he said.

She looked up from her newspaper. “The clouds might come in, I’m afraid.”

He resisted the urge to surveil the area. Her statement was a signal that Stasi agents lurked nearby. They’d have to be careful. They always were.

“What news is there today? Good or bad?”

She tapped the paper. “The Russians want us to increase production. It’s not clear what that means in the short term.”

That was a more complex message, but it meant she had information about Russian visitors to East Germany, yet she wasn’t clear that the information was useful.

How did she get that? Jeremy asked himself. He didn’t want to know.

She handed him the newspaper. “Here. See for yourself. I have an appointment to keep. Please excuse me, mein Herr.”

He watched her walk away…practiced, dainty steps, not her customary, business-like stride. Coldly professional, this novice spy.

He’d knew he’d find a floppy disk inside the paper. It wouldn’t be examined until later, when they’d find the list of Russian visitors. With luck, they’d also find a list of East German journalists who might be approachable by the British before or after the event.

***

The next “meeting” was at a restaurant near various Soviet-style residential towers where Jeremy figured living in a flat there would be dangerous; he knew shoddy construction practices and inferior materials characterized such buildings. They were bleak, foreboding, and gray monuments to Soviet dominance in the East Germans’ worker’s paradise.

She was sitting in the booth at the rear; he took the next one.

All meetings between the two were arranged by an intermediary named Walther, a man who lived elsewhere and used an illegal transceiver the British had supplied him. The messages were generally from Jeremy to Esther via the intermediary, in encrypted Morse code. She could send messages to him too, but that wasn’t often because they met on a schedule, both days and times corresponding to agreed upon random numbers in a table the three spies had.

Read the rest of this entry »

Note from Steve: Missing my political posts? This blog now only has articles about reading, writing, and book publishing. You will find the missing political posts at http://pubprogressive.com; they’re still commentaries on social issues, politics, and other topics of concern that have more to do with my concerns as a US citizen and not my writing life. Please take a look.

***

Your voice (or style) might be influenced by other authors’. How can you not be influenced if you’re an avid reader? (If you’re not, you should be!) Still, whether you’re influenced or not, if your voice isn’t more unique than not, why bother writing?

Many things contribute to that voice! The themes and plots they wrap around that you choose as an author are two where you not only stake out your territory but also can use them to appeal to different audiences. Same for narrative, dialogue, and settings. All your chosen story elements can be individualized. I wouldn’t worry too much about genres, though, because you can leave those keywords and others who insist on classifying your oeuvre. In fact, every time you think they’ve pigeon-holed you, break out and do something different! It’s best to keep readers guessing about the next book. That goes even for a series.

Consider Canadian mystery writer Louise Penny. I stopped reading her Inspector Gamache series because, like many traditionally published authors’ series, those books were becoming formulaic. Now a surprise! She teamed up with Hillary Clinton to write a thriller. (I can guess who did most of the writing.) I guess old Hillary didn’t want to be outdone by her philandering husband Bill, who teamed up with formulaic James Patterson, but I didn’t much care for either politician, so I won’t read their fiction. (A tell-all where Hillary relates why she didn’t kick Bill out on his butt would be more interesting than fiction.)

In my case, I bet some readers thought that after Rembrandt’s Angel, Esther Brookstone and Bastiann van Coevorden would just continue solving crimes involving art. Son of Thunder, however, is entirely different as three parallel stories unfold and then coalesce, with religion playing a major role. (My only previous novel where the latter occurred was Soldiers of God, but religion is treated in an entirely different way in that story.) Then Death on the Danube had Esther and Bastiann on their honeymoon cruise and something like Christie’s Murder on the Orient Express occurs.

Did you think that would end the series? No, I continued to write about those two sleuths, having them solving crimes involving art, only art was trafficked in Palettes, Patriots, and Prats. Finally (for now!), having written Son of Thunder, the book Dan Brown should have written instead of The Da Vinci Code, I wrote about a Da Vinci code! Leonardo and the Quantum Code has a mathematical physicist developing new algorithms for quantum computers that are based on ideas found in a recently discovered Da Vinci notebook.

Say what you want about the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series, you can’t claim it’s formulaic. Yeah, I know, I shouldn’t use my own books as examples, but I know them best! And this series illustrates what I mean by keeping readers (and critics?) guessing about your author’s voice.

Maybe some readers don’t like my changing voice, or Penny’s, for that matter. I don’t give a damn. I like to surprise readers! And sometimes the way a novel turns out surprises even me! I’m not the same writer I was when my first novel, Full Medical, was published in 2006. As my skills developed, my voice changed…and I’m proud of how it has changed, no matter what readers think.

***

Comments are always welcome.

Rogue Planet. I often taut this as a hard sci-fi and not just another fantasy version of Game of Thrones. Now there’s a lot of hype about Dune, as the third movie based on the famous Herbert fantasy epic is about to come out. While it’s much better than Thrones, it’s a bit long-in-the-tooth…and long! Rogue Planet is a more compact story—similar swash-buckling battles between armies and a similar flawed and royal hero, but everything is set in my usual sci-fi universe that I began in The Chaos Chronicles Trilogy Collection. Of course, you can read it independently of that trilogy. (All my novels have that feature.) So if it’s epic fun you want, try my hard sci-fi, not fantasy! Rogue Planet is available in ebook or paper format wherever quality books are sold.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Horror stories come in all flavors, from the hilarious to the gory. Some call them fantasy, others sci-fi, and still others speculative fiction. Stephen King and Dean Koontz have made successful careers telling them, building on that genre’s founders, authors like Mary Shelley, Edgar Allan Poe, and H. P. Lovecraft.

I have to confess I’m not a reader of horror, fantasy, or supernatural sci-fi. Gore doesn’t turn me on; zombies, werewolves, and vampires turn me off unless they’re comedic fellows; kings and princes doing battle with bizarre creatures give me the blahs; and magicians, leprechauns, and elves, especially evil ones, generally just give me indigestion.

I’ve read all of Stockmyer’s “Under the Stairs” series, though; it’s a wonderful mix of sci-fi and fantasy (and probably the most neglected yet deservingly trumpeted series of its type). I’ve also beta-read much of my friend Scott Dyson’s work where his truly human characters, unlike King’s, have very human reactions to horror (like Stockmyer, another neglected author in my modest opinion).

And the latter points to my problem with horror stories: They all too often get lost in the fantasy world and lose touch of their characters’ humanity. That’s one reason why I don’t write horror stories, even though they become popular this time of year: It’s too difficult for me to lose the humanity in my characters.

Sure, I’ve written a few, mostly short fiction. You’ll find most of them in the Pasodobles in a Quantum Stringscape speculative fiction series (Volume One, in particular, which is available on Amazon, with Volumes Two and Three available as free downloads—see my “Free Stuff & Contests” web page). A few other pieces of short fiction might be scattered around here and there. Rogue Planet (see below) is hard sci-fi with fantasy elements. Yes, it has a prince who becomes king, but he’s very human (meaning he has his flaws), and there seems to be magic, but it’s all techno-wizardry.

I suppose this might all come from my childhood where dressing up for Halloween was an afterthought, a bit of drudgery other kids and their parents seemed ascribed to. “Oh, isn’t he cute!” never set well with me, especially when uttered by strange grownups. And later on I was more into the tricks than the treats! Just call me the Grinch that stole Halloween, I guess.

Covid has put a damper on Halloween too. We struggle with making it safe for everyone. Most of the kids who visit us aren’t vaccinated. We get more little kids now as our neighborhood becomes filled with Brooklynn ex-pats and their little ones, and they are indeed cute (I don’t sat it!) as we have fun guessing who their parents are. The elementary school across from us usually has a Halloween parade around the neighborhood. Last year they didn’t. Maybe they will this year.

In any case, I wish a happy and safe Halloween to you and yours.

***

Comments are always welcome!

Rogue Planet. I often taut this as a hard sci-fi and not just another fantasy version of Game of Thrones. Now there’s a lot of hype about Dune, as the third movie based on the famous Herbert fantasy epic is about to come out. While it’s much better than Thrones, it’s a bit long-in-the-tooth…and long! Rogue Planet is a more compact story—similar swash-buckling battles between armies and a similar flawed and royal hero, but everything is set in my usual sci-fi universe that I began in The Chaos Chronicles Trilogy Collection. Of course, you can read it independently of that trilogy. (All my novels have that feature.) So if it’s epic fun you want, try my hard sci-fi, not fantasy! Rogue Planet is available in ebook and print versions wherever quality books are sold.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[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 Thirteen

Declan was echoing Maggie’s thoughts. Am I involved in this mess and completely in the dark about why?

He thought her focus on the Irish Rovers was one alternative, but Archimedes had shown that Babbitt had sent the threatening email. If the PI was kidnapped, how could he do that? And if the Rovers were responsible for everything, why had they made the email appear to be from Babbitt?

An alternative might be that Babbitt wasn’t really kidnapped. Maybe he was a Rover! The Rovers might find the Jamaican useful for that part of their smuggling operation that involved drugs. Could an Irish crime syndicate have Jamaican members? Babbitt worked for Heathrow’s firm, but what if the Rovers also used the PI to monitor the barrister? Had Heathrow double-crossed them in some way, and they ordered Babbitt to get rid of the barrister? Or was something else entirely different going on?

He decided to do some of his own sleuthing. He would start by finding out if Gilby and Babbitt had really gone to Jamaica. He rang Laurie Lancaster, Babbitt’s PA. He explained who he was and how he was peripherally involved in the Met’s case.

“I just heard from Mr. Babbitt, via email,” he told her. “I don’t think he was kidnapped. Maybe that photo was fake. I’m betting he’s still in Jamaica for some reason. You don’t happen to know where he was staying there, do you?”

There was silence in which he heard traffic noise. He also heard her gum-chewing increase as she thought. “I think I saw a brochure on his desk. Let me check. Hold on.” She soon returned. “It’s Secrets Wild Orchard in Montego Bay.”

“Thanks, Laurie. You’re a doll.”

“You sound nice. Come around and say hello sometime, Luv.”

“I will.”

He was amazed at his ability to lie now. Desperation? He might be telling a few more lies in the future. He called Secrets.

He wasn’t surprised that Babbitt wasn’t there. Neither was his “wife.” But their departure date didn’t correspond to their arrival date on that day he’d seen Gilby kidnapped, the same day Babbitt supposedly was also kidnapped. Had they gone somewhere else?

The pleasant island lilt of the clerk continued as she asked him why he was looking for Mr. Babbitt. Maybe she’s more suspicious than Laurie? Declan smiled. She should have asked him that first.

“I’m trying to trace him. I have an important message for him about a sick aunt. His office manager told me where he’d gone.”

“Oh, how sad,” the clerk said in her best English accent. “Let me check if he or the missus left a forwarding address.” She soon returned with her answer. He used a variation of his lie with Laurie and rang off.

Grand Cayman? He called Archimedes.

***

Maggie’s tech-wizard passed Declan off to Raul. He’d sounded overworked, so Declan didn’t mind. Raul was also a tech-wizard. Fortunately Clarissa was in day-care.

Declan was at his favorite pub having a pint and dinner when Raul called. He explained he had a contact in Grand Cayman, at one of the posh hotels there, the Westin.

“Your request presented a bit of a challenge. You owe me a dinner. I like Indian. So does Archie.”

“Done, even if your information doesn’t satisfy. You and Archimedes deserve it.”

“My friend has friends at banks and other hotels there. Here’s the name of the hotel and their bank.” He rattled off the name of another hotel, Kimpton Seafire Resort, and a bank in George Town. “Could those two be trying to avoid some of the king’s taxes?”

“Maybe. I guess Jamaica wouldn’t work for what I’m thinking. I’ll tell you and Archimedes later if my hunch is correct.”

He rang off and took two sips from his glass to settle his thoughts. If his hunch were correct, he still wouldn’t know why he was involved, but he could see Maggie interrogating the two lovebirds to find out.

He stared at his moby. He knew it was time to get Maggie and Ezra involved, assuming they’d listen to his theory. They might think it was only the imagination of a novelist, a writer of mysteries and thrillers. That would be their mistake. With his father and sister and contacts they’d provided, he knew how coppers solved crimes…or failed to do so. His stories, even though they were fiction, were constructed to seem real. He thought they were good and hoped one day that book royalties would become a major source of income. If not, he might have to accept some assignments in war zones to keep the ‘zine editors happy.

He found Maggie’s number in his mobile’s contact list and rang her. It went to voicemail so he left a short message for her: If you’re not too busy, give me a call. I have a theory. Declan.

He knew she might verbally bash him for meddling again, so he was surprised when she walked into the pub.

***

“I’ll have what you have and bangers and mash,” she said, sitting down opposite him. “You’re treating.”

Her way of bashing him? All the same, he smiled. “Good to see you again. Rough day?”

“We talked with an Irish Rover who’s in the nick. If we can believe what he said, the Rovers didn’t kill Heathrow. I don’t know about your threats, though.”

“Archimedes traced the email to Babbitt, remember?” She nodded. “His partner Raul helped me trace Babbitt to Jamaica and Grand Cayman. I don’t think the Rovers killed Heathrow. I think it was Babbitt, maybe with Gilby as an accomplice.”

She mulled that over, her ale arrived, and she downed half of it. “Okay. While this sounds like a plot from one of your novels, go on while I’m eating.” She tucked into her food.

Declan watched her for a moment. She was a dainty eater, but she could tuck away food with enthusiasm. Maybe she skipped lunch?

“Okay, I’ll admit my theory is farfetched. Babbitt worked for Heathrow’s firm from time to time and was sweet on Gilby, and maybe vice versa, unless he was using her. In any case, she found out that Heathrow was aiding the Rovers to launder their illegal proceeds—I’m sure there’ll be records of that—and got Gilby to skim a bit of them, that money winding up in their accounts in Grand Cayman. The Rovers found out and killed Heathrow, thinking he was the culprit. Or maybe Heathrow found out what his employees were doing, so Babbitt killed him. Variations on a theme.”

“My Lord, where do you come up with this stuff? Do you smoke dope?”

He smiled. “It fits the facts.”

“Except for the fact that it doesn’t explain why they warned you to stop meddling.”

“Which I wasn’t doing. You’re obviously aware that I write novels. I try to make my crime stories as real as possible. My lead coppers have been male so far, but that might change.”

She pointed her fork at him. “Don’t you dare. That’s too much reality!”

“Apparently, so was The Calais Connection where I describe a French crime syndicate smuggling goods from France, read EU, to England, after Brexit. Their operation all goes south when an accountant in Dover starts skimming some of the profits.”

“So someone in the Rovers actually reads?”

“No, either Babbitt or Gilby do.”

She almost dropped the fork, remembering the book on Rebecca Gilby’s writing table.

“Declan O’Hara, I think you just solved this case.”

 Chapter Fourteen

The hunt for Rebecca Gilby produced no results; the one for Ron Babbitt did. The DGSI stopped him on the French side of the chunnel, and he was extradited back to London. DI Abbott seemed pleased when Bent told him.

“Half the pair is better than none,” he said to Maggie. “Assuming O’Hara’s right, of course. Can you give Babbitt some stick?”

“We have enough on him to put him away at least for a bit. I missed one important clue, sir.”

“Good that you’re honest about it, but what was that?”

“O’Hara’s novel on Gilby’s reading table.”

“Had you read it?”

“No. He’s written several.” She remembered the book at Heathrow’s. “I like to start a series with the first book in the series. When I have time to read. I often don’t.”

“Same here. We’re not paid to read or be literary critics, though. We miss a few things now and then, but usually not for lack of reading. I wouldn’t worry about missing that clue.”

Why is he being so nice to me? “Shall I outline what we have on Babbitt and Gilby?”

Read the rest of this entry »

Settings are important in fiction. They represent the stage where the fictional drama takes place. Some of mine are real; some I imagine (the ET settings are obviously creations of my imagination); and some that seem real aren’t (Google Maps and Google Earth are an author’s useful tools, though). You can have some fun trying to guess what places I’ve actually visited (probably more than you think).

Most of Chen and Castilblanco’s cases begin in NYC, which I know well enough; it’s just thirteen miles east of us via NJ’s Route 3 and the Lincoln Tunnel, but those cases often expand beyond NYC and the tri-state area to the rest of the US and abroad. I know Europe fairly well too, as well as South America, Canada, and Mexico. My travels allowed me not only to learn about our wonderful human diversity (although my home state of California has plenty), but also to learn about different places.

But what I don’t know, I can imagine. If you’re going to write fiction, you need imagination You can write non-fiction without it…maybe…but it’s absolutely necessary to have an imagination to create places you haven’t yet visited, or characters living in those places, so that the fiction seems real to the reader.

One of the most interesting places I’ve visited is Ireland. In addition to being sort of an ancient homeland (for this half-blooded Irishman), it’s just a fascinating place. It’s also where I met A. B. Carolan, my reclusive collaborator, at a place called Blarney Castle (storytelling needs a lot of blarney as well as imagination). It’s odd that it doesn’t appear much in A. B.’s or my stories (his are sci-fi tales, of course). In Palettes, Patriots and Prats, there are a few scenes, and it’s rumored that Esther Brookstone had a wee fling there with some Irishman in Kilarney, but that’s not where those stories take place. In a novella that ends tomorrow, Declan O’Hara, the main character, is from Donegal, like A. B., but maybe subconsciously I haven’t wanted to spoil lovely Eire by putting lowlifes, ETs, or androids from my fiction there?

South America figures prominently in my fiction, though; I’ve both lived and traveled there. Colombia was home base for many trips to conferences in the US and Europe where I spent a lot of time before and after such events traveling and meeting people. I had two long stays in Italy and Spain as a visiting scientist that also served as bases to tour Europe, where you can hop on a train in the evening, sleep the night away, and wake up in a new country.

Perhaps the most obvious influence of my travels on my fiction is found in Death on the Danube. The book’s plot (except for flashbacks) follows a real and wonderful riverboat cruise (without any murder taking place, of course) down that ancient waterway. It would have been hard to imagine that itinerary on my own.

Authors should take advantage of such travel whenever possible. The more real the places in our prose seem, the more our readers will feel that they are experiencing new or remembered places too. That’s all part of the great adventure readers can find in books.

***

Comments are always welcome.

More than Human: The Mensa Contagion. Apocalypse and first contact are two ubiquitous sci-fi themes. I like to stir conventional themes and plots up a bit, though. Here first contact comes via an ET virus that kills at first (an apparent apocalypse that’s worse than Covid) but benignly creates Homo sapiens, version 2.0. What do these new humans do? They colonize Mars and later meet the makers of the virus, in a manner of speaking (this isn’t your normal first contact). You’ll have some fun with this one, and, like many sci-fi novels, it will make you think about possible futures. Available wherever quality ebooks are sold.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

Note from Steve: How could I forget? October is a busy holiday month—Columbus Day aka Native Americans’ Day and Hallowed Eve (watch for those kiddies, whatever day your town celebrates it!). But the whole month is Hispanic Heritage Month. I was once so immersed in Hispanic culture (in Colombia) that I dreamed in Spanish even when I returned to the States. Of course, I enjoyed a lot of that culture as I grew up in my native California. So, readers, let’s celebrate all these holidays!

I can understand readers have different preferences for non-fiction, but their preferences for fiction often make zero sense to me. You see it in the NY Tines “Book Review” (I can only recommend that Sunday supplement for the bottom of your bird cage). “Oprah’s Book Club,” “The GMA Book Club,” and many others, where they think they can tell readers what to read and bludgeon readers with their opiniated schlock.

You’re probably thinking, “Just another disgruntled writer who can’t compete!”…or something similar. You’re wrong. Most of my opinions here (which none of the above values, of course) originate in being a pissed-off reader. Oh, I’ve tried to find some traditionally published fiction to which the above cater and that’s worthwhile to read: The blurbs and “peek inside” features (or browsing in a bookstore or library) tell me they’re nearly always formulaic, boring stories that some agent and/or acquisitions editor has decided fits their marketing ideas (as if they do much marketing except for their old formulaic mares and stallions ready for the literary glue factory).

Traditional publishers make it difficult to enjoy reading now. No wonder people have turned to streaming video and video games for their entertainment: They can’t find anything worthwhile to read because they’ve been brainwashed by traditional publishers and their media minions into thinking only their schlock is worthwhile.

Yes, Oprah and the cast of GMA are collaborators in this literary conspiracy: I ignored Oprah’s choices, and I’m ignoring Robin Roberts’s gang’s too. I know where to find entertaining, interesting, and profound fiction, and it’s generally not what they recommend or what traditional publishers try to shove down my throat. Amazon sneakily keeps tabs on what I’ve been reading. At least their bots are smart enough to know I don’t read fiction from the bureaucratically bloated traditional publishers (readers pay for that bloat). You’d think the latter and their sycophants would change their business model and start paying attention to what avid fiction readers actually read instead of trying to force us to read something else.

The last traditionally published book I read was the exceptional pleasant surprise (the review is found at Bookpleasures—it was an honest one, so I reported on a few negatives, hence author, marketing guru, or publisher didn’t want it reposted on Amazon or my blog); it was okay. The one before that I tried and couldn’t finish was Deaver’s stupid whatever-you-call-it written in reverse. He went downhill after Garden of Beasts; I suspect his publisher had a lot to do with that. I suspect a lot of old authors like Deaver don’t really want to be boring and formulaic, but their publishers force them to be. That’s how you get series like Deaver’s or Grafton’s. Or maybe authors like them just let their publishers do that to them?

Too many readers let traditional publishers get away with this. If you’re an avid fiction reader like me, please join me in boycotting traditional publishing by reading entertaining, interesting, and profound fiction from self-published authors. You’ll be happier. And don’t fall into the trap if another reader says, mostly to one-up you, “Have you read X. It’s in the NY Times bestsellers list.” That poor sucker doesn’t know what he or she is missing.

***

Comments are always welcome.

More than Human: The Mensa Contagion. Apocalypse and first contact are two ubiquitous sci-fi themes. I like to stir conventional themes and plots up a bit, though. Here first contact comes via an ET virus that kills at first (an apparent apocalypse that’s worse than Covid) but benignly creates Homo sapiens, version 2.0. What do these new humans do? They colonize Mars and later meet the makers of the virus, in a manner of speaking (this isn’t your normal first contact). You’ll have some fun with this one, and, like many sci-fi novels, it will make you think about possible futures. Available wherever quality ebooks are sold.

Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!

[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.”

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