[Note from Steve: I’ve been remiss in offering these short stories and novellas. If anyone cares, I’ve been doing what the title says. (I hope…although, some who also read my political blog might argue that my retirement from running novelistic marathons is far from graceful!) In any case, I thought it was appropriate to end this series by returning to my intrepid Detective Rolando Castilblanco, one of my earliest creations. I hope you enjoy the story!]

***

Aging Gracefully

Copyright 2024, Steven M. Moore

Pam put down her section of the Times, removed her reading glasses, and smiled at me. I put down my glass of Jameson—I only did a few sips now, still neat—and smiled back. Drinking that brew never had been an homage to the stereotypical Irish cops in the NYPD. I just preferred it over other whiskeys—bourbon too biting, scotch too smoky—and whiskey over rum and coke or some other drink people often consider more typical of Puerto Ricans. Maybe I had acquired enough blarney to make my choice even more logical?

I knew this woman so well now that which smile she was flashing me was obvious: She was going to propose something that I might not be keen on doing but would willingly do if I could because she’s the love of my life. There might even be an argument that I knew I’d probably lose, again willingly. After all, the man is the king of his castle until the queen arrives, as they say. That’s a rule for any man to live by when it came to his woman! And in my case, I figured I was lucky to have her.

Let’s face it: I’ve always looked like many of the thugs I’ve often pursued and arrested, and that never changed for the better as I aged. I’m a bear of a man, always have been, from the time when I was still a young and nimble Navy SEAL traipsing around in the Middle East to when I walked out the precinct’s doors to become ex-Sergeant Rolando Castilblanco, celebratory emphasis on “ex.”

None of my detective skills involved mind-reading, though, so I waited to hear what mi mariposa’s sly smile meant, secure in the knowledge that whatever it meant might get me into trouble. That had happened, sometimes getting Pam into trouble as well.

“You know, Rollie, our European trip wasn’t exactly the romantic vacation I’d imagined.”

Talk about stating the obvious! Assuming her comment was about how the terrorist Kadar had resurrected from the dead to begin his evil campaign by nearly killing me, a very good assumption albeit a bit dated, Pam’s observation was an understatement. Or was she referring to our more recent little getaway when we visited Esther and Bastiann in London? That had begun back in New York with an attack on our daughter, Ceci. I ended up working in London to thwart some Chinese agents, so that trip wasn’t exactly pleasureful either.

It was unusual and interesting how my “Big Apple beat” prowling for criminal lowlifes on the city’s mean streets so often took me elsewhere in the US and abroad. Pursuing the murderer of an FBI agent’s son—the agent had been a good friend and became a love interest for my partner Chen—that pursuit had taken me to the Fascist Republic of Texas and had ended in a trip to the Caribbean. (The state had become much worse over the years, a place smart Latinos and women needing abortions had to avoid now because their lives depended on it!) Unlike AOC and all her little commies, I’d seen Cuba wasn’t the worker’s paradise, but maybe I was just biased after being shot at in Gitmo.

“Don’t keep me in suspense, mi amor,” I said to my wife. “What are you proposing?”

***

Pam thought a moment. She’d been a TV personality but was without a script writer, so maybe she was looking for the right words to convince me? I knew she would eventually, but I hoped it wasn’t a long, drawn-out discussion.

“I was referring to our trip when that awful terrorist was kidnapping those aristocrats,” she finally said.

I nodded: That had been my first guess. Kadar had made both our lives and Chen’s miserable. Where was this going?

“We could avoid any possibility for a repetition of something like that by taking a river cruise like Esther and Bastiann did for their honeymoon.”

“Please remember that Bastiann had to solve a murder case on that riverboat,” I said. “That wasn’t exactly a joyful and romantic honeymoon for those two old lovebirds.”

“Oh, that could never occur again. You’re not a cop any longer; I’m not a reporter. Very few people even know we exist anymore. Our kids now live more dangerous lives that we do.”

I wasn’t going to argue with her about that—Ceci was a CSI and Pedro was a cop, and both had already proven their livelihoods could lead them into danger—but as an ex-cop, I still had many enemies, including some lowlifes still in jail who might have it in for me and would soon get out for “good behavior.” Even dumb apes with one-track minds can hold a grudge for years!

“I suppose you have a tour already picked out?”

“I do. The same tour in fact with the same riverboat company Esther and Bastiann used.” She smiled. This was now one of her gotcha-smiles. “Less chance of a repeat if I understand Bayesian statistics at all.”

Bayesian statistics? Is that a thing? What the hell has she been reading? Pam had always been more curious and self-taught than I am. Her work had covered lots of topics with interviews of many so-called experts on many things. The perps I’d caught were generally the dumb ones. The smart perps, often psychotic sociopaths, used their better brains to commit evil deeds, an exception being a certain ex-president who wasn’t smart at all and just barely escaped serious jail time…and maybe a firing squad for being a traitor?

“Are we doing Munich or Prague before the riverboat cruise?” I knew something about Esther and Bastiann’s trip, more his version than hers.

“No. This will be a trial run for you. It should be easy. They have one-, two-, or three-level difficulty ratings for their land tours, or we can just stay onboard and watch the Danube flow by.”

Oh joy, I thought, recalling that all those new fascist European countries we’d also be passing by.

***

Our European super-vacation was delayed!

I knew something was wrong as we sat at our gate at JFK and I heard shots fired. Later I learned that the small group of terrorists had broken through TSA security, killing three poor agents on their way to our gate.

When they arrived, I saw they were dressed in business suits. (I suppose full military regalia might have been suspicious.) They were waving pistols with huge magazines hanging from their undersides; I guessed they had more mags in their pockets. TSAs’ scanners would have spotted those weapons obviously, so that must be why they’d broken through the security station. An obvious point of failure! Maybe TSA needed to screen people as they entered the terminal instead?

Domestic terrorism had plagued the US even before that ex-president had tried to overthrow the US government claiming fraud in that election where he’d been the big loser. Militia members from California had participated in a crazy cartel leader’s plan to take over most of the American drug trade that oxycontin manufacturers had shown to be so profitable. Al Qaeda terrorists had participated as well. It had been a huge cluster-fuck that had almost killed Hal, an American Interpol colleague of the Dutch Bastiann; they’d become consultants for MI5. I knew all this for multiple reasons, the last because of submarines. Long story!

Our terrorists didn’t wear red hats, big sombreros, or military helmets, some apparel that might have made security agents wonder. They looked more like young businessmen off to have a good time at a boondoggling meeting somewhere in Europe. I bided my time, thinking about one, what they intended to accomplish, and two, what I could do to help prevent it. It was clear that the terminal would soon be invaded by US agents of all types. In a firefight, innocent people could die. Shit, Pam and I could die! Not exactly the vacation she’d wanted!

Sometimes on a case, Chen or I discussed a perp’s possible motives. Knowing them could help us solve the case. The weird cases were those we solved without ever learning the motives. In Europe, the case of that terrorist Kadar had almost been like that. He’d had a whole lot of so-called “counterterrorism experts” baffled. There’d been a clear motive, a terrible one, to be honest, so we’d been lucky to stop him.

Consequently, I couldn’t help wondering what these domestic terrorists’ motives were. With all the airport’s security around and more on call who’d be there in minutes, why take the risk of mounting what could very well be a suicide op for them?

Suicide? My memories time-traveled back to 9/11/2001! Our plane wasn’t a good one to hijack to Cuba or anywhere else. It was a huge jumbo with a lot of twelve-seat rows in a 3-6-3 combo separated by two aisles. I used my smart phone to find out where it was headed after Frankfort, Germany, hoping that would provide a clue. The answer I got was Tel Aviv, Israel.

Despite that crazy ex-president’s efforts—he’d encouraged the Israelis to make Jerusalem their new capital, pissing off a lot of Muslims and even Christians who shared that holy city as a shrine—Tel Aviv was still the most important city in Israel for multiple reasons, mostly economic. It was a safe assumption that the SOBs at JFK wanted to go there, although the plane would have enough fuel to go to other places. And big cities don’t only exist in America! London or Paris could also be a target. (The jumbo would need a large airport to land, if a landing was in the terrorists’ plan.)

As the terrorists tried to maintain control of a lot of frightened passengers, I studied them. They were black-haired, brown-eyed, and swarthy-skinned, but hell, that describes me as well! They could be from anywhere and fanatics about anything.

I moved closer to a subgroup of them to try to determine their language. A gun swung in my direction to cover me.

***

Comments are always welcome. (Please follow the rules on the “Join the Conversation” web page.)

Want to read the rest of this story? Easy…but TANSTAFL, because you’ll have to make a few clicks. Rather than serialize it, you will find it next week in the free PDF download “Castilblanco Redux Plus Two,” a short fiction collection that contains two more crime stories set in the Sheffield area of England. Consider all these and many other free PDF downloads of crime mysteries to be an introduction to the “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco,” “Esther Brookstone Art Detective,” and “Inspector Steve Morgan” series, Have fun!

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

Dr. Carlos and the Wicked Will

Copyright 2022, Steven M. Moore

“Would it be impolite to ask you what your Human wills entail?” said N’Roku, one of the Tali, as they sat around the campfire not far from their crippled hovercraft.

“They’re rather traditional legal documents even if they’re just e-files now and stipulate how the property of a Human—or even a non-Human’s within the ITUIP, allowing for some local variations—are left to one or more people, or even charities and institutions. Conditions are often placed on those who would receive this property, though. For example, they must be alive. In this case,” he glanced at the Tali, which required a look upward, “the condition is that I’m dead.”

The spit was still turning slowly with half the carcass of a large hopping creature still on it. Not one tourist in the group who was a flesh eater had liked the wild taste. Of course, the Rangers had done fine with the fish-like creatures they’d caught in the lake. In a sense, Carlos envied them, but he hadn’t been too hungry since the AI had read the will.

Fortunately, one Human, a woman named Karla Ponce, had found both syntho tea and coffee in a hovercraft closet. Although it might have been there from an earlier time when Human employees of the tour company manned it and offered refreshments to passengers, all the Humans appreciated the hot beverages. Ah, progress, Carlos thought. ‘Tis a wonderful thing, except when it isn’t. And now that damn AI is almost completely offline!

The Tali’s ears were twitching in a way that Carlos knew signified amusement. “Should we all gang up on you now and tear you apart limb by limb?”

“Don’t be crass,” Thom Sideman, one of the Humans, said to N’Roku. “We have to ignore that old woman’s wishes. Clearly she was mentally disturbed and had it in for Dr. Obregon. Do you have any idea why that was, Carlos?”

They were all on first name basis now, so Carlos felt the group’s dynamics had ceased to reflect the wariness of strangers. He still didn’t know that much about their backgrounds, though, the Humans or ETs’, so he wasn’t about to mention what he suspected to be true. And maybe the common home planet and surname are still just coincidences?

Detectives throughout history often said they didn’t believe in coincidences, though. If there was anything to the ones involving the will’s creator, how had the old woman known he’d be on the same tour when he’d decided to go on it only at the last moment? And how had she added the reading of the will to the AI’s programming? For that matter, why was the AI now completely offline? The landing had been a soft one. Had she somehow programmed all that? Or, did she have an accomplice?

“Does anyone here know about programming an AI?” he called out to everyone huddled around the dying fire. “If we can reboot the hovercraft’s, we can guide our rescuers to this place. It might take them days otherwise.”

“I do,” Orl the Usk said. “But there are no tools.”

“There was a toolkit in the closet where I found the tea and coffee,” Karla Ponce said. “Let me show you.”

Carlos held up a hand. “We should probably all go inside now to sleep with the hatch closed. You’ve all seen those local predators from the air. N’Roku, could you help me put out the fire?”

“What about the leftover meat?”

“Give it a good fling. Maybe it will keep the predators busy enough to forget about us.”

***

After everyone was comfortably settled in their seats, Carlos and Orl went to work. The toolkit seemed to be designed for making repairs to electronics, even living biocircuitry, the AI’s wiring a combination of both, so the Usk was happy about that. He was very good with his hands and, of course, Carlos’s surgical expertise using the kit’s many tiny tools allowed him to help a lot. Knowing that the translation software still worked allowed them to quickly find the problem and begin repairs. They soon could converse with the AI again, but it informed them there was no comlink to base, which had been their main goal. Nearing the end of the repair process, Orl had run a diagnostic subroutine, and the AI had informed them that whatever software changes Alger had made had also created a time-delayed power surge that had fried the comlink. They couldn’t repair that.

“You had a good idea, Carlos,” said the Usk, “but she was a right nasty old female Human, wasn’t she?”

He sighed but was glad that most of the others were already sleeping. No wonder. I’m exhausted too. “Can we at least rig some sort of beacon? If bright enough, it might be seen from Euphoria’s space station where my ship is docked.”

“Bad line-of-sight angle,” said Swims-in-Shadows, one of the Rangers, who’d come to peer around Carlos at their repair job. “How about a controlled burn? There’s a cluster of those huge trees not far from our hovercraft. I saw it when we were landing.”

“How long would that last?” Orl said.

“No idea,” said the Ranger, “but it would be brighter than anything we can create artificially.”

“I hate to destroy the local environment,” Carlos said. “And fires all too often get out of control. It might even reach the hovercraft.”

“I can move the hovercraft farther away if that occurs,” said the AI, startling everyone involved in the conversation. “Com’s out, precluding any major flights, but a quick hop locally is possible.”

“That settles it,” Orl said. “Where are those flares we used to start our cooking fire? We’ll begin at the near edge of that cluster so the burn moves away from the hovercraft. When we return, we’ll watch carefully to see if the AI’s hop is needed. I doubt it.”

“The other side of the cluster abuts the far end of the lake,” said the Ranger. “I saw that when I went fishing.”

Carlos shrugged. “Okay. At least it will keep us busy.”

***

Carlos woke N’Roku early. The three, N’Roku, Orl, and Carlos, left the Ranger to guard the other tourists who were still sleeping and headed for the copse of trees.

As they walked, Orl said to Carlos, “Not afraid we’ll gang up on you?”

“I trust you and N’Roku and Swims-in-Shadows as well. And there’s no other option. The other tourists seem to be simple souls with no survival instincts, except for Ponce for the coffee and tea. Of course, if you and the Tali want to kill me, there’s not much I can do about it. Humans are fragile creatures compared to Tali and Usks.”

They got a nice fire going, although the burn went slowly, so Carlos suggested that they scout out the lay of the land as it sloped down toward the edge of the lake, which would stop the fire from advancing any farther. N’Roku returned to the hovercraft to inform the others of their progress and warn the AI to move if that was required.

“Swims-in-Shadows was right,” Carlos said to Orl. “The trees go right down to the lake’s edge.” Carlos stared across the shimmering waters. “This is a beautiful and peaceful place.”

“A fitting place for you to die, Dr. Obregon,” said a voice behind them.

They turned and saw the female Human Karla Ponce. She held a needle gun, and it was pointed at Carlos.

“Where’d you get that gun?” Carlos said.

“Same closet as the toolkit and flares, you idiot. I’m sorry. You seem like a nice man, but I can really use those funds.”

He laughed. “Obviously enough to commit murder. Congratulations. I would never have suspected that you’d be the one.”

“Ideally, all the Humans are going to split the inheritance. I just drew the short straw.”

Carlos wondered what they’d used for straws.

“I’m not a participant in this conspiracy, Carlos,” Orl said.

“Of course not,” Karla said. “I said just we humans, you fool. Why should we split with any slimy ETs?”

Carlos was always amazed how often Humans’ xenophobia reared its ugly head. Other ET groups had that mental disease as well, of course, especially when they had their first contacts with other intelligent beings—the Tali and Usks were examples—but for the most part the disease succumbed to the realization that peaceful coexistence and cooperation were beneficial to all. The Union was built on that principle.

“I see that Alger chose wisely,” Carlos said. “Just to humor me, to grant my dying wish, if you want to call it that, how do you plan to use those funds? You’re not likely to escape from Euphoria’s authorities.”

She shrugged. “To be determined. But we’ll all get our story straight, don’t you worry. The AI can be put out of commission again, so it won’t be reporting on anything. And a needle gun will work perfectly well on the non-Humans.”

“Are you sure about that? I’m a medical doctor, and I’ve studied and attended a lot of ETs in my time.” Carlos jerked a thumb toward his Usk companion. “The poison in your needle gun won’t even affect him. Not Rangers or Tali either. They all use blasters for that reason.”

She hesitated. “Will it slow him down?”

Carlos nodded at Orl. “She’s so stupid that she expects me to answer that.” He turned back to Karla. “Forget the needle gun. You have something else to worry about. Can you swim? The fire soon will be upon us. If you kill me and manage to slow down Orl, you will still have a long swim back along the lake. Without knowing what lethal fauna might be found there.” He now winked at Orl.

As Carlos expected, she turned to look back toward her rear to see how near the burn was. The Usk moved with lightning speed and was soon standing over Karla and covering her with the needle gun.

“What the good doctor neglected to tell you, although I’m sure he knows, is that we Usks can move very fast and have fast reflexes. Our bodies’ form of adrenalin is much more potent than Humans’, which is also why a needle gun doesn’t usually kill us.”

“Where’s the fire?” Fear was etched on Karla’s face now.

Carlos laughed. “Unlike Orl, my friend here, it can’t move very fast. The ground is too moist and the trees too wet. You were so intent on following us that you missed those details. You and the other Humans will soon be living in the nice penal colony they have here on a nearby island. I don’t think ITUIP will be negotiating for your release either.”

***

“You know, Dr. Obregon, we treat tourists well here,” said the local police commissioner, a nice woman Carlos was having some kind of local tea with. “We hate to punish them for crimes they commit, often looking the other way. But this case will be an exception, let me assure you. Maybe their actions surprised you?”

He looked at her over his teacup and took another bite of his cookie, also a local concoction that was delicious. He seemed to remember that afternoon tea had once been a tradition in some ancient Earth country. It was a nice one, especially when the person serving was an attractive Human female.

“Oh, I’m not surprised, especially in this case.” He told her the story about Alger’s brother. “So, you see, it was simple revenge. Quite cleverly done, I might say. But let’s change the topic.” He eyed her. “I have a few days of leave left me, Commander. I took that tour because I was bored. But I’m sure you know a lot more about local sights to see and places to visit. Can I invite you to dinner so we can talk about them.”

She laughed. “I can do more than that. I have the next two days off. We won’t do justice to our lovely planet, but I can give you a grand and personal tour. My only condition?” He nodded. “That you tell me more about your adventures in the SEB.”

He offered a hand. “That’s a deal, Commander.”

“You can call me Twill for the next few days.”

“That’s a lovely name for a lovely lady.”

***

Comments are always welcome. (Please follow the rules listed on my “Join the Conversation” web page. If you don’t, your comment will be considered spam.)

The Chaos Chronicles Trilogy Collection. In this ebook bundle of the three novels, Survivors of the Chaos, Sing a Zamba Galactica, and Come Dance a Cumbia…with Stars in Your Hand, the reader can find much of ITUIP’s history that Carlos Obregon is referring to in the above story. These three hard sci-fi novels, all “evergreen books” because they’re as fresh as the day I finished their manuscripts, can be considered my Foundation trilogy. Unlike the famous Isaac Asimov, though, there are plenty of ETs, something that’s obvious even in this short story. The most unusual ones are the Rangers, the first ETs Humans encountered on Carlos Obregon’s home planet New Haven. For more Carlos Obregon tales, see “Dr. Carlos, Chief Medical Officer,” a free PDF download from the list on my “Free Stuff & Contests” web page.

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

[Note from Steve: It’s been a while since I’ve posted a short story featuring the starship Brendan’s Chief Medical Officer Carlos Obregon. You might have read about some of his adventures in “Dr. Carlos, Chief Medical Officer,” a PDF you can download for free—see the list of available downloads on the “Free Stuff & Contests” web page. This one is a bit different because the good doctor has to be more than an amateur sleuth. It also might be a bit humbling for Human readers because it shows that once-evil ETs might be able to perform morally a lot better than Humans can. Enjoy. And, oh yes, Happy New Year everyone!]

Dr. Carlos and the Wicked Will

Copyright 2022, Steven M. Moore

Carlos Obregon studied the other people in line and immediately felt out of place. He was a starship’s medical officer, after all, not a typical tourist. On a scheduled leave on the planet Euphoria that his captain had made him take, he’d become bored among an entire world of tourists and those who catered to and exploited them. The planet was a tropical paradise, though, and its shimmering seas; towering mountains, many of them volcanoes; and interesting flora and fauna seemed to beckon him. A quick trip around the planet to take it all in was a good way to spend the idle time forced upon him.

Among those in the same line were the ET tourists: Two Rangers—unusual to see the strange fellows from his home planet on a tour, but they’d always been a curious folk; a short, oily-and-mottled skinned Usk, looking more bored than Carlos; and three Tali, orange and furry fellows who towered above everyone. There were also eleven Humans of all shapes and sizes and attitudes, including a wrinkled old lady who made Carlos wonder why she’d not taken anti-senescence drugs. He supposed her choice was due to some religious bias. Human religions often went up against modern science, and their members often died because of those choices. All intelligent beings in near-Earth space seemed to have some strange beliefs.

One by one, they all moved forward. The check-in seemed complete and efficient, the syntho voice of the hovercraft’s AI seeming to ring in all their ears only because it was a nearly instantaneous translation from Standard to the ETs’ different languages transmitted to their now ubiquitous implants in their sound-receiving organs. While his rendering was in Standard without need of translation, he thought that even some of the Humans would receive a translation into their planets’ dialects, especially if they came from outlying worlds.

“Carlos Obregon, Chief Medical Officer of the starship Brendan. Welcome to Euphoric Tours’ sightseeing trip around our lovely planet.”

Everyone glanced his way. They all knew he was out of place too, and, as often happened, he regretted how much technology encroached on people’s lives. The old woman even studied him, her wrinkled face becoming even more distorted by a frown. She was ahead of him, so he knew she was from one of those outlying worlds, a planet outside the Interstellar Trade Union of Independent Planets, aka ITUIP. When he found a seat inside the hovercraft, she chose the seat next to his, glared at him, and then proceeded to ignore him. Maybe she’s a member of some religious cult? The outer worlds in near-Earth space were full of them, their vary existence often making their joining ITUIP impossible.

***

The AI’s programming was good. It flew them over some atolls where strange fish soared out of the water to nab four-winged flying creatures; then over snow-covered peaks, some of them topped with craters with volcanic smoke reaching up into the cirulean sky; and down to a vast savannah where herds of ungulates fed on the tall and waving yellow-green grass, all the while being stalked by some fierce-looking but smart, stealthy carnivores.

The constant drone of the AI gave local names to all the sights they were seeing, but some had no real translation. The locals of Euphoria spoke an ancient Earth dialect called Yiddish, although Carlos recognized a few corruptions within it from ancient Chinese dialects. That wasn’t that uncommon. The Chinese had established the first colony on Mars millennia ago, its autocratic government there mimicking the homelands; it had failed, as had the Earth country, but the Chinese language continued to corrupt the language of the Spacers, which had evolved into Standard.

As the hovercraft flew around some jewel-like lakes, the old woman collapsed.

“A passenger is ill!” Obregon called out. “We need to either land or head back!” He was already leaning over the woman, pressing fingers to her carotid after noting the blue tinge to her wrinkled, pale skin and especially her lips.

“Please tighten your seat belts,” the AI announced. “The hovercraft will be landing—”

They were already losing altitude, but Carlos wondered if its software was failing. Is the AI dying as well? He normally wouldn’t worry about the announcement because he’d already suggested two possible courses of action, and the AI had chosen the easiest one at that moment. They’d come a long way. Moreover, he’d landed—crash-landed, to be precise—on a more than hostile planet and knew how to survive. But not with a bunch of tourists!

He was about to try CPR when he noted a peculiar odor. He’d grown up on New Haven and identified it as a strong poison used against local pests that lurked around the New Haven Humans’ dairy farms. Did the woman commit suicide?

“AI, this is passenger Obregon again. As soon as we’ve landed, the air onboard needs to be replaced with outside air as soon as possible!”

The AI didn’t reply, but the landing was a soft one and they all staggered out of the hovercraft feeling a bit dizzy.

***

“What’s wrong with that Human female?” said one of the Tali.

Carlos gently placed her body on the ground. “She’s dead. I believe she’s been poisoned. Anyone remember her name?”

“Alana Alger,” the Usk said.

“Why would she commit suicide?” the Tali said. “She was a tourist just like all of us. Her home planet is Verdant. I’d never heard of it.”

Now Carlos remembered reacting to the woman’s name and where she was from when the AI had announced her name and citizenry during check-in. He’d written it all off to coincidence. Decades ago, Brendan had made a port of call at that planet. A Human male had tried to kill Carlos; his name was Edo Alger, and Obregon’s testimony against him sealed his fate, a complete mindwipe, a gift considering the options the jury had to consider.

Apparently self-correcting code woke up the AI. It announced, “To all surviving hovercraft tourists, the dead woman has a will on file. I’ve been programmed to read it to you.”

Carlos didn’t like the sound of any of that. Who at Euphoric Tours had programmed the AI for this trip? Like everyone else, though, he listened.

The reading of Alana Alger’s last will and testament was brief. She left all her considerable fortune, millions of credits in a bank located on the planet Sanctuary—he had to smile at the woman’s use of irony in choosing that particular planet considering their current situation—to be shared equally with all the passengers onboard the hovercraft as long as Carlos Obregon, starship Brendan’s Chief Medical Officer, did not make it back alive to Euphoria’s capital city.

Everyone was stunned as much as Carlos was. One could see it on the Human’s faces, and, as a ship’s doctor who had to attend to many different types of ETs, he read that emotion in them as well. He decided to not attach any importance to the old woman’s will. She’d obviously been mentally ill, probably for a long time.

***

“Curious burial rites,” Orl the Usk said to Carlos as they all walked away from Alger’s grave. “Quite touching words too, considering that old Human wanted you dead, Carlos.”

Carlos glanced at the short ET who looked like a turtle from ancient Earth without his shell. Like the Tali, the Usks had been thwarted in their plans to conquer Earth centuries ago, their respective defeats also centuries apart. Also, like the Tali, they’d become well integrated into Earth society and ITUIP.

Carlos worked for the Union’s Space Exploration Bureau. Would that stop Orl or the others from trying to claim Alger’s millions? Most were ITUIP citizens. He still appreciated that the ETs seemed loathe to do the old woman’s bidding and had become even more friendly, though, while the Humans seemed a bit more ambivalent.

“Usks’ burial ceremonies are more like our ancient Vikings’,” Carlos said, returning to the Usk’s first comment. “Very similar, in fact. Many Humans also cremate their dead too, perhaps not so elaborately as you folk but the same idea. We just couldn’t leave her on the ground. We don’t want to attract carrion feeders or predatory animals. Our only choice was to bury her or cremate her. I chose the former for lack of material for a pyre.”

“That shovel and rake in that closet were a great find. Who are these Vikings?”

Carlos explained. He was a student of Earth’s history and customs, many variations of the latter also prevalent in near-Earth systems, especially in Human colonies outside ITUIP like Verdant. Some were like Euphoria, which seemed to have a cultural milieu dedicated to having a good time and tending to the tourist trade.

“I understand,” Orl said. “Those Vikings did have a culture that had a lot in common with our old traditions.”

Carlos could only nod, thinking that it was probably not the time to observe that those ancient Usks were even more vicious than the Vikings. One could find common characteristics for ancient Humans, Talis, and Usks. Only the Rangers had avoided those tendencies toward savagery. Having grown up on New Haven, a world shared by Humans and Rangers for millennia, Carlos knew the latter had had their disputes, but they’d been settled peacefully. Nevertheless, they’d become fearsome allies with the Humans in the battles against the Tali and Usk!

Will someone in this group of tourists attempt to kill me? His first suspects would be his fellow Humans, but he would carefully study all the tourists stranded with him. At the same time, he would try to help them get organized. They could be waiting for a search party to find them for a while.

The AI was now offline, and that meant the hovercraft’s communication with its base was no longer operational. In fact, the only AI function that seemed to be left was its translation subroutines that allowed everyone to communicate without knowing the others’ languages. That was done via their implants and most necessary for the Rangers because of their complicated buzzspeak, but Carlos’s knowledge of the Tali and Usk languages was minimal.

All that meant there was plenty of time for someone to organize an accident to befall him.

***

Comments are always welcome. (Please follow the rules listed on my “Join the Conversation” web page. If you don’t, your comment will be considered spam.)

The Chaos Chronicles Trilogy Collection. In this ebook bundle of three complete novels, Survivors of the Chaos, Sing a Zamba Galactica, and Come Dance a Cumbia…with Stars in Your Hand, the reader can find much of ITUIP’s history that Carlos Obregon is referring to in the above story. These three hard sci-fi novels, all “evergreen books” because they’re as fresh as the day I finished their manuscripts, can be considered my Foundation trilogy. Unlike the famous Isaac Asimov, though, there are plenty of ETs, something that’s obvious even in this short story. The most unusual ones are the Rangers, the first ETs Humans encountered on Carlos Obregon’s home planet New Haven. For more Carlos Obregon tales, see “Dr. Carlos, Chief Medical Officer,” a free PDF download from the list on my “Free Stuff & Contests” web page.

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

[Note from Steve: Wishing a joyful holiday season and Happy New Year to all my readers. This is the third story about the “Earl of Penrith.” Enjoy!]

The Fishing Trip

Copyright 2022, Steven M. Moore

“I don’t understand. I gave you that business card. He gave it to me.”

“Did he or does anyone in your family have connections to Scotland?” Sally said.

Earl was letting her run the interview again. Women often thought he was a gruff old bloke.

“Some cousins, Sergeant. A lot of people across northern England have Scottish friends and relatives.”

“Whereabouts, ma’am?”

She sighed. “I suppose I could make a list. They’re mostly in the west and center. One family even runs an inn near Loch Ness. Not the best place in winter, I dare say.” She smiled. “I guess the tourist industry is in our blood. I know my relatives best. My husband had some in Glasgow as well. I’ve lost contact with most of them. But why would Wayne be living up there?”

Earl didn’t want to say what he was thinking. He could imagine a very lucrative employment for an expert pharmaceutical chemist. He’d need to consult with Penrith PD’s Drugs Enforcement Division. Their investigations often led to liaisons with the NCA’s drugs division, but the coppers at Penrith PD knew a lot about the drugs trade.

“We’d appreciate a list of any names you can remember, Mrs. Simmons,” was all he said.

Their calls back at the station soon included the new names. One of Mr. Simmons’ relatives in Glasgow was candid. “I once asked Wayne why he hadn’t taken advantage of all that schooling. His answer was, ‘I am.’ I didn’t like his sleazy smile. But I’m prejudiced. I never liked his sister, but I liked him even less.”

“So, he was in Glasgow?”

“Oh, sure. For a while. Can’t say we saw him that much, which was okay by me. He was a bit creepy, I dare say.”

“So, you weren’t going to the daughter’s wedding?”

“What wedding? I didn’t even know my cousin had a daughter, Inspector.”

“Um, thank you for your information, sir.”

***

When Earl told Sally about that conversation, she had the same reaction. “Maybe Mrs. Simmons’s baby brother had a life she didn’t know about. In any case, Wayne ended up in Glasgow. We still have to connect the dots from Birmingham to there, and from there to here.”

“A very secretive life, Sally, one that might have got him killed.”

She nodded. “Someone wasn’t too happy with him, that’s for sure. Someone who doesn’t like boats.”

“How’s that?”

“I would have filled his pockets with rocks, rowed him out to the middle of that lake, and dumped him. Depending on that boat sinking was a mistake.”

He smiled. “That’s why we’re such a good team. You see things that I don’t.”

“I can’t see that my observation helps. A scrote who’s afraid of water or boats was obviously still a murderer.”

“It might limit our search to the middle of the country, though, away from the coastal areas. I’m afraid we’re going to have ask NCA for some help, bless their dark, spooky souls.”

Long ago in London, Earl had worked under DS Matthew Finley as his DC. They’d shared a loathing for their DI at the Met and become friends and drinking mates. Matt was now with the NCA, so Earl called him.

After some pleasantries, Earl got down to business. He told Matt about the case and what they knew about the victim so far.

“I know Drake, and let me warn you that you should take what they told you with a grain of salt. Big Pharma is often international—they like to test questionable drugs in Africa, for example—and they don’t even like the whiff from authorities snooping around. Drake might be clean in general, but they probably cut corners just like the worst of them. I’m suspicious of any pharmaceutical corporation that manufactures both the patented and generic forms of a drug overseas and markets them both in the UK.”

“That’s allowed?”

“Just about everywhere for the international corporations.”

“So, you think Ross might have really worked for Drake?”

“Doing things we might not approve of, yes. The most profitable way to market a drug these days is to make it addictive so customers keep buying it. So many people self-medicate now. My daughter ordered some cough syrup from Bulgaria. I had it tested. It had some trace amounts of some really nasty stuff in addition to codeine. Definitely not appropriate for young children! If anything, these places’ quality control can be sorely lacking.”

“Um, I guess they think adequate quality control costs them too much money. But how would Ross be involved in something like that? He’s a skilled scientist.”

“Good question, and I can’t answer it specifically for him. What I can do for you, old friend, is push it up the ladder, maybe even to Gretchen herself.”

“Who’s Gretchen?”

“Gretchen Williams, the director of our drugs division. She’ll know someone who might be able to tell us how Ross was spending his time, and why he was so secretive about it.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Not if you lose the case.” Matt laughed. “Marra, I know you so well.”

“Indeed. I just want to solve a murder case. NCA’s investigations all too often go far beyond that. They want to close down an entire drugs syndicate. They can do that if that’s what this case leads to as long as I can solve my case.”

“From what you’ve told me, the world’s probably better off being rid of Wayne Ross.”

“That’s not for us to say.”

“Of course not. I’ll try to get back to you by day’s end. On a lighter note, how was the fishing?”

“Neither the father-in-law nor I caught anything, but my other guest landed one. Beginner’s luck. He also spotted the rowboat with Ross’s body in it.”

“Sign him up!”

Earl decided not to tell Matt that was what MI5 or NCA had wanted to do.

***

Matt didn’t return Earl’s call; Director Williams did. “Matt brought me up to speed on your case. We’ve been interested in Drake, and Wayne Ross in particular, for a long time, Inspector Wilson.”

“You can call me Earl, ma’am.”

“If you call me Gretchen. Ma’am makes me feel old. You will be asking why we’re interested, I’m sure. There’s a lot of bad stuff coming in over the border. Maybe Drake’s not involved directly, but they’re not drugs you can produce in an old farmhouse somewhere.”

“Coming from Glasgow, are they?”

(more…)

[Note from Steve: This is the third story about the “Earl of Penrith.” Enjoy!]

The Fishing Trip

Copyright 2022, Steven M. Moore

DI Earl Wilson had to smile and then laugh when Simon hooked his first fish and nearly went overboard using the net to snare it. Old Kevin had to grab his new son-in-law by the belt to keep him from falling in.

Earl had to admire the lad. He’d turned his life around and become a card-carrying and honest member of the great middle class. With a new bride—Earl could imagine that Kathy and Simon might soon make Martha and Kevin new grandparents—a steady job at the auto repair shop where he’d soon have a chance to take over when his boss retired, and plenty of extra work helping Kevin, the busy handyman and father-in-law, Simon would be more than okay. He was even losing some of his Geordie accent and sounding like a Lake District local at times.

DI Earl Wilson was a police veteran who had started out as a patrol constable in London, a “bobby” or “top” as they were called, the latter for the helmet—and then bounced around the country after being promoted from PC to DC and finally DI, finally ending up in the Lake District, where he suspected he would retire someday because he loved hiking and fishing.

He was a big bear of a man, an oversized version of that American telly detective, Columbo, complete with old car and dirty raincoat, but he didn’t smoke cigars and didn’t drink much. In fact, for his age, he was in good shape. A criminal might outrun him, but they’d be hard-pressed to outfight him. He had once broken one’s jaw, but he’d gone to the hospital later to apologize to the hand-cuffed scrote for doing that.

Earl thought the lad had hooked another fish—beginner’s luck!—when he stood up in the boat and pointed across the lake waters. “There’s a boat with a body in it, Inspector!”

Earl didn’t stand—he knew better, and the boat was already swaying side to side. “Sit down, lad!” He squinted but still shaded his eyes. “I believe you’re right. Hopefully, just some fisherman taking a catnap. We made an early start too. The fish wake up and have breakfast early.”

Kevin and Earl took the oars, not wanting to wake the bloke up by starting the motor if he was asleep but still feeling the responsibility of checking up on him. Unfortunately, Simon had been correct. There was a body in the boat, and the head trauma and blood indicated the man had been attacked.

“Lash the boat onto ours, you two,” Earl said. “I’m cranking up the outboard. We need to go ashore so I can use the radio in my old truck. We’ll need the SOCOs and a pathologist.”

“Is the boat a crime scene now, Guv?” Simon said.

Earl had to smile. The lad was mimicking his sergeant. She was a frequent guest at Martha and Kevin’s house along with Earl and Simon. Kathy and Simon lived above the repair ship in a bedsit; Earl had seen bigger closets in rich people’s mansions. The two were saving to lease or buy something bigger.

***

By the time the pathologist and SOCOs arrived, Earl had recorded what the three fishermen had seen. He sent Kevin and Simon home in Earl’s truck with his boat because Sally had arrived too. She could drop Earl at Martha and Kevin’s house so he could get his truck.

DS Sally Hill was from the other coast, loved the Lake District as well, and loathed southern England. Her birthplace was Morpeth, a regional capital not far from Newcastle-on-Tyne, so she felt right at home in Penrith that might be considered a left-coast town in comparison to Morpeth, without any polical meaning intended—the area along the border with Scotland was a conservative one.

Twenty years younger than her Guv, she was coming into her own as Earl’s partner in policing. She was fleet of foot and good enough at martial arts to compensate for her small size, as many a criminal had discovered. She also could turn on the charm, though, if she felt inclined or needed to do so in an interview or interrogation.

Sally became busy on her moby trying to identify the victim—miraculously she had a few bars; Earl’s 4G model had none—so Earl walked the lake shore, trying to find the spot where the rowboat had been set afloat with the body. There were two more moorings to the east and three to the west. He’d chosen to use theirs because he’d had the most luck fishing there.

His surveillance task took him a good forty minutes, but he found the probable launch point, the second of the three western moorings. He checked the third to make sure and then briskly returned. Arriving at the original site, he waved Harry, the lead SOCO, over.

“Second pier west of here has reeds beaten down. There are two old rowboats still there. I’m thinking our victim’s funeral boat might have been a third. There are recent car tracks, maybe from a Rover with one bald tire. Get what spoor you can find there, if you will.”

Harry nodded. “Any idea who owns those rowboats?”

“Maybe you can tell me that eventually. No names on the boats. Couple of diners and pubs hereabouts might know. I’ll be sending some DCs to help. The boats might just be abandoned, though.”

“Could be. The one the victim was in was old and ready to sink with a small hole in the bottom. Might have been the idea, to be honest, but his bloody shirt acted like a cork. Otherwise, we’d never have known what happened to the old geezer.”

“Old? How old?”

“Older than you, and that’s saying something.”

Earl ignored the taunt. “A local maybe?”

“We need to ID him, Guv. Could be, but you don’t know him and Kevin doesn’t, so maybe not. Not tourist season either, though. Someone passing through from down south maybe?”

“Any idea how long he’s been dead?”

“I’d guess he was put out in the lake last night sometime. Otherwise, the boat would have sunk despite the bloody shirt tail. But you’d better wait for Doc’s official TOD.”

“Might not be the same as the boat launch. You fellers can send me your reports. Sally and I had better start looking for mispers. Like you said, we have to ID this bloke.”

***

If Harry was right about the time the rowboat was launched, which meant the victim had been killed sometime before that, it was possible no one had reported the man missing yet. As a consequence, Sally and he stopped at a convenient pub during the trip back to the nick to have a quick pint and an early lunch. Earl took the opportunity to query the publican, who had no idea who their victim might be; the victim hadn’t patronized the club, which started selling breakfasts early in the morning.

Sally eyed her guv over her ale glass. “How did Simon handle that experience on the lake?”

“Happy to land his first catch, the lad was. He and Kevin are tight now. I guess the old man is the father Simon never had.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“He spotted the rowboat and the body. Didn’t seem to give him much aggro. Can’t say he’s seen as many dead as a soldier might, but he’s certainly seen enough in his short life. Kind of gives one a thick skin. Almost seemed like he was more excited about us having another case to solve.”

“Maybe wanting to forget about his?” Earl shrugged. “I’d think the experience would have taken all the joy out of catching his first fish.”

“Lad’s a natural for that if he learns to handle the net. A few practice casts and he was ready to go.”

“And Kevin?”

“He’s an old hand.”

“I meant, how did he react to finding a body?”

“He’s an old soldier. He was more worried about Simon tipping our boat over. He didn’t know the victim, by the way. Neither do I. We need to get busy back at the station. I want to know who that bloke is. Or was. We can then pry into his life to see who would want to kill him.”

“Brutally.”

“I’ll give you that. Lots of anger at the very least.”

“So…should we get to it?”

“As soon as I can flag down Rita.”

“This place is busy, and it’s only eleven-thirty. I’ve never been here.”

“You should see it during the tourist season. We locals take these places for granted, but all the hikers and twitchers want to experience a cozy Lake District pub. They’ve turned the typical pubs into American sports bars in the Big Smoke, you know. They call it making London cosmopolitan.”

“That’s occurring in Newcastle too. Morpeth is a bit more sedate.” She frowned. “I’m not looking forward to preparing another murder board, Guv.”

He smiled. Their last major case had been Simon’s; they’d started out with eight victims in a case that eventually involved both MI5 and NCA. “Hopefully, we can keep the spooks off this one. Rick Barnes was a bit hard to take.”

Sally smiled. Earl knew she fancied the MI5 agent.

Major crime in the Lake District was rare except for spillovers from the big cities in the south and east: Birmingham, Durham, Liverpool, Manchester, and Newcastle. The Penrith Police District spent most of its time on solving lesser crimes, from stealing livestock and farm equipment to peddling illegal drugs. There were plenty of yobbies around, among them those who preyed on tourists, and they all kept the police busy enough. It was rare when the district’s CIDs saw the crime the big cities saw, though, especially what occurred so often in London.

***

As it turned out, there was a missing person. Mrs. Helen Simmons, a woman who ran a boarding house in a hamlet not far from the lake had been expecting a visit from her brother, Wayne Ross, a resident of Durham. The woman’s daughter was getting married and wanted her Uncle Wayne to give her away because her father had passed on.

Sally and Earl paid Mrs. Simmons a visit. She was already accompanied by a Family Liaison Officer who warned the two detectives that her charge was quite unstable. But the elderly woman agreed to talk to them, sitting down with them in the boarding house’s comfortable parlor with tissue box at the ready.

She didn’t look like a dowdy boarding house manager. Dressed to the nines, including what looked like a pearl necklace and earrings, fashionably coiffed hair, and expertly applied makeup, she could have looked good on any MPs arm…or an MP herself like the Iron Lady about to give a speech on the floor of Commons. Is the boarding house business that good? It wasn’t tourist season.

“Can you imagine? We’ve had to postpone the wedding to have a funeral!”

Sally glanced at Earl with eyebrows raised; he nodded. They had no idea when the pathologist and coroner would release the body, but Earl didn’t want to get into that. Sally followed his lead and made no comment about the dowager being more worried about the wedding than her brother’s demise.

“Tell me, Mrs. Simmons, about your brother. What did he do for a living?”

“Some kind of research. He is-was-a brilliant man, my little brother, a chemist who worked in a pharmaceutical company in Durham. Way beyond my understanding is what he did, but I think he invented new drugs to help people. I don’t think the rest of the family knew that. You know how it goes, detectives. I dare say none of them cared.”

For a moment, her grief had turned to anger. Sally was very familiar with dysfunctional families. She wondered how many guests had been coming to the wedding.

“What about his life in Durham? Was he married? Does he have family there?”

“Heavens no. We’re northerners, our Ross clan.” She slipped into some distant memory. “Simmons was my dear husband’s name. We owned and ran this establishment. Some of our customers return every year during the summer months. Other times we survive with traveling salespeople. Not the most elegant boarding house in the area, but our service is exemplary. Breakfast and/or dinner plans are available. Tell your relatives and friends.”

Sally smiled at the advert. “Do you remember the name of Wayne’s company?”

“No, but I have a business card somewhere. Hold on a moment.”

She left the room. They heard drawers opening and shutting. She soon returned triumphantly and handed Sally a card.

“Drake Pharmaceuticals,” Sally read. “Did he describe his work there in any more detail?”

“Only what I already said. And I wouldn’t have understood much more. Oh, he once told me had several patents. I think he meant he created several new drugs, right? Doesn’t one’s company hold the patents?”

“Generally that’s the case,” Earl said. “The researcher signs an agreement. Do you know anyone in the Penrith area who would want to harm your brother?”

“He got along with everyone, Inspector. He had the usual barneys with schoolmates growing up, but that was long ago. And he hasn’t lived in this area for donkey’s years. But he’s Barb’s only uncle. Barbara is my daughter.”

“I assume she’s disappointed,” Sally said.

“For the wedding, yes, but she’s enraged about how someone would do this to her Uncle Wayne. As we all are in the family. Please find who did this despicable act!”

“We’ll do our best, as always,” Earl said. He handed her his own card. “We might have to talk with again, Mrs. Simmons. And feel free to call us if you can think of anything more that might help us.”

***

Drake Pharmaceuticals had never heard of Wayne Ross. Had he lied to his family all those years? Had he even lived in Durham? Earl didn’t know what to think.

Sally managed to verify that he’d received a doctorate from Birmingham University. What could he have been doing if not employed by Drake?

They decided not to tell Mrs. Simmons, her daughter, or any other family members for the moment. Earl wanted to find out more about the mysterious scientist. He and Sally began to call other police departments in northern England, Earl using many contacts he’d developed over the years. Two DCs were trawling for anything in social media about Wayne.

The Home Office’s Border Force came up with one interesting item: Wayne Ross made a round trip in 2027 to Prague, capital of the Czech Republic.

“Not first on my list as a place to visit as a tourist,” Earl said, “so maybe he went for some other reason. Obviously not a business trip for Drake Pharmaceuticals, but maybe one related to his research?”

It all came down to knowing what the secretive man had been doing since he left the university years earlier. Someone had to know.

As much as Earl hated to trawl computer databases, he stubbornly went at it, finding one more item: Ross had purchased a new Range Rover in Aberdeen four years earlier, and he had paid for it in cash. The dealer had no home address or telephone number for the scientist. Earl bet it wouldn’t have been Durham at any rate. Had he been living there or some other place in Scotland?

Earl gave his team the task of answering that question, but that datum also suggested that Sally and Earl should pay Mrs. Simmons another visit. It was time to tell her that her little brother’s life wasn’t what she’d thought it was.

***

Comments are always welcome. (Please follow the rules found on the “Join the Conversation” web page. If you don’t, your comment is considered to be spam.)

“Inspector Steve Morgan” novels. You met DI Morgan in The Klimt Connection. In these three stories, he has a starring role. In Legacy of Evil, loose ends from Celtic Chronicles are resolved…and then some. The brutal murder of an old man starts things off, and three more occur. In Cult of Evil, Morgan’s team has a cult murder to contend with, and an assassin after Morgan adds an additional worry. In Fear the Asian Evil, the sister-in-law of Morgan’s sergeant is shot, and pursuing her shooter leads the team to a spy network. As a set, these three novels represent an ideal holiday gift for your family and friends who love British crime stories. Available wherever quality ebooks are sold, just not on Amazon.

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

[Note from Steve: This is the second story about the “Earl of Penrith.” There might be a third. Stay tuned.]

The Recruit

Copyright 2022, Steven M. Moore

They kept the investigation focused. Normally for a major case, Earl would get help from other stations in the Penrith Police District. His DCI agreed with the MI5 agent, though, so Earl and Sally had to make do with three of their station’s DCs along with a SOCOs’ unit if needed.

That was why Sally showed up alone to talk with Kathy Kilborn, Simon’s girlfriend who worked at a gift shop in a nearby village. After the usual introductions, Kathy invited the DS to a storeroom in the shop’s rear to get away from the worried looks of the storeowner who’d already told Sally that she loved Kathy as if she were her own daughter.

“She means well, sergeant, and she’s very nice to me, always saying that I should marry Simon.”

“When did you last see him?” Answer: The day before the shooting. Sally nodded. “The repair shop’s owner said Simon had decided to work late on some toff’s car.”

“Yes, I think the car’s owner promised him a nice bonus to finish the repairs ahead of schedule. Did the repair shop’s owner say anything else?”

Sally almost felt Kathy was running the interview. “He said Simon closed up things like he always does.”

Kathy nodded. “He often works late because he lives right above the shop. He says we can’t get married until we can manage a flat somewhere.”

“Did you try calling his mobile?”

“He doesn’t have one. He uses the phone in the repair shop, or my moby when he’s with me. My parents pay for mine as part of a family plan.”

Sally’s next question danced around the truth. She hadn’t provided the young girl with details about what had occurred at the farm. “Do you know if Simon has any enemies?”

“Heavens no! Even strangers like him, but, to be honest, he doesn’t have many friends. Me, my parents, his boss, my boss—that’s about it. He’s from down south. Cardiff area, I think. No family, though.”

“No violent pub barneys or drinking or drug problems? Other problems with the law?” Sally had already checked HOLMES. A negative shake of the head from Kathy confirmed the lack of a record on that police database, but the last question had also been a test to see if she knew about his past in Northumberland that had been erased when Simon went into witness protection.

“He’s a saint. I fell for him the day he came in here to buy his boss a pipe for his birthday.” She smiled. “My Pops smokes one, so I could make a few good recommendations. He didn’t want to go into Penrith because he doesn’t have a car.”

She’s quite smitten, thought Sally. “Has he met your parents?” The answer to that could indicate how serious the relationship really was.

“Two dinners. Pops was impressed, and Mum, who’s so protective of me and my little sister, told me he was a keeper.”

Would they still feel that way if they saw that video? “We might want to talk to your parents. Would that be possible?”

“I suppose. I don’t want them to think he’s in trouble with the law, though.”

“We’ll be clear about that and just say he’s missing, which he is, and we’re worried about him.”

“They will be too. So will my boss when I tell her why you’re here.”

“That’s all you can tell them for now. We’ll keep you informed.”

Sally didn’t want the worried young woman to know anything more. She was a complete innocent.

***

Earl had sent some SOCOs to the bedsit above the repair shop. After talking some more to Tim Dalton, Simon’s boss—he’d given the SOCOs a copy of the key—Earl climbed the stairs and stuck his head in the open door.

He saw that most of the SOCOs were still back at the farm. The newer building on the hill had been confirmed to be a drugs lab. Earl had informed the drugs unit but refrained from mentioning Simon’s history or the connection of the case to MI5 and NCA. That unit would be busy enough tracing that lab back to the two gangs because the ones on site hadn’t survived. Earl did want them all in jail, though.

Harry, the SOCOs’ leader, was in Simon’s bedsit, though, with one of his minions.

“Anything yet of note?” he said to the lead SOCO who waddled up to him looking like a NASA astronaut on a Mars mission. With the Yanks’ Artemis mission successes, one had to wonder when the first one might occur. Or would that jerk Elon Musk be successful with his own plans? Or the Chinese who still seemed to be chomping at the bit even though their economy was in a shambles now, something they caused themselves.

“Only that there seems to be a woman’s touch in play. Very neat and orderly. Two sets of fingerprints. Not much of anything else.”

“Easier to have a few trysts here with his girlfriend, I suppose, than at her parents’ house.”

“There’s a box of condoms. Is her name Kathy Kilborn?” Earl nodded. “That’s on several receipts we found in a bureau drawer. For the condoms and some takeaway, although there’s no rubbish corresponding to the latter. Clean place for a bachelor, I dare say.”

“A serious relationship then. Nothing wrong with that as long as the lad isn’t being abusive with the lass. No sign of drugs, weapons, or ammo?”

The SOCO waved a hand at the bedsit. “It seems there’s not enough space here to hide even that penknife. But we’ll keep looking, though.”

At that moment, Earl received a message. He checked his mobile and read it. Sally was meeting him at the parents’ house.

***

Kathy’s father was a handyman who worked in the area with the parents’ home as base; her mother was a seamstress who worked in the house. Sally could understand how Kathy had such a good disposition and seemed so nice because both parents were like that. She could see her Guv liked them too.

“Simon’s a good bloke,” Kevin Kilborn told them. “Fixed my truck for free, the lad did. Helped me load it for my next day’s work too, when he was here for dinner. Treats Kathy right too, he does.”

“Says we’re the family he never had,” Marsha Kilborn said with a smile.

“Marra, that lad has good son-in-law potential.” The father said that to Earl but flashed a wink at Sally afterward.

“Did he ever talk about his family?” Earl said, wondering if Simon had divulged anything about his troubles in Northumberland.

“Seems like he’d been in the foster system in Wales,” Kevin said. “Reading between the lines, as it were. That’s always tough. Young ones always do better in a loving family, even if it’s a poor one like ours.” He thought a moment, but Earl had learned patience. The man shook his head. “Can’t think of anything specific. Kept himself to himself a lot, so the missus and I think he’d just as soon forget about his early years.”

No surprise, thought Sally. She glanced at Earl to see if he wanted her to jump in. He nodded. “Do you think he’d be able to support your daughter?”

“Handy with his hands, he is,” Kevin said. “And he could help me a lot when he has time off at the repair shop, though I wouldn’t be surprised if his boss gives him more duties as well. He already closes up a lot. He’s a good worker, sergeant. So my answer is yes.” Martha nodded.

“Do you have any idea where we might find him?” Sally said.

Kevin glanced at this wife; she shook her head. “We’re worried. That repair shop’s in a seedy area. We’re afraid something has happened to that young man. He’s never disappeared before.”

“Couldn’t he just have taken some time off? Maybe he felt trapped in his relationship with Kathy?”

“Heavens no! They were already engaged in a sense,” Martha said. “But he couldn’t yet afford a ring. That’s why she invited him to dinner. He has plans, that young man. They revolved around Kathy, but he has ambition. Wants to open his own repair shop. Smart as a whip, he is. Not school smart, but practical.”

“Always knew what to do,” Kevin said. “Caught on to installing quarter-round right off, he did, just by watching me.”

“Excuse me?” Sally saw Earl smile.

“That’s tricky when going around corners,” Earl said.

“Aye, you have to miter it just right,” Kevin said. He sighed. “My old knees aren’t so good anymore, so he scooted along the floor and finished in a flash a task I had.”

“I gather those plans included marrying your daughter and staying in the area?” Earl said.

“Told us that,” Martha said. “We believed him. He wouldn’t just do a runner, not that lad.”

“Do you know about any pub brawls or other incidents? Did anyone have it in for him?”

Sally saw that Earl was dancing around the truth too.

“I don’t even think he drank all that much,” Kevin said. “We’d each do a pint, but that was about it. Not typical, I dare say—young lads these days like the drink too much—but I figured that maybe one or both of his birth parents could have been sots, and he hadn’t liked that. In any case, everyone he met seemed to like him. At least, that’s what Kathy has told us. She saw more of how he related to people, of course.” Kevin cleared his throat and Martha nodded. “He even had patience with toffs and their rich men’s cars at the repair shop. They can be…” He searched for the right words. “Rather demanding, let’s say. I see that in my own work as well. Bloke has to have patience when dealing with the rich snobs who think they’re better than common folk.”

***

The SOCOs found the gun. They’d spotted a loose ceiling tile above the bedsit’s counter and sink. Simon had expertly broken down the Chinese Uzi-copy.

Did that mean that Simon had done a runner despite what Kathy’s parents had said? Earl wouldn’t blame him if he had. Witness protection had failed to protect him. He was probably only alive because the two local gangs weren’t sure whether the Newcastle syndicate wanted him alive. But after Simon had killed eight gang members, they now probably wanted him dead no matter what that Newcastle gang wanted.

“Someone must know where he is if he stayed in the area, Guv,” Sally said. “He can’t be that familiar with the Lake District. There are places I don’t even know about, and I’ve been here a while, but how could he find them?”

“Aye, there be plenty of places out among our wonderful natural treasures. A fishing cabin on some secluded lake, a cave in the mountains. Who knows?”

“But he wouldn’t know about any of those. He had no time for tourism. He was working 24/7, it seems.”

Earl nodded. “I see your point.” He thought a moment. “There are two blokes who seem to have earned Simon’s trust, Tim Dalton, his boss at the repair shop, and Kevin Kilborn, Kathy’s father. He’s worked with both of them. Working men can become close mates.”

“Over pints at the pub,” Sally said with a smile. “As far as we know, Simon didn’t frequent them.”

“Um, no money, no time. But he’s still close to those men. Let’s visit Dalton first and then Kilborn, if only for lack of better ideas. The spooks at MI5 are depending on us.”

Sally saw his grimace. Her Guv didn’t like either MI5 or NCA. She was more ambivalent and liked Rick Barnes.

***

They found Tim Dalton hard at work on a van. He took a break to have a mash with them. They got no joy from him about where Simon might be hiding, but the mash came with biscuits that were good.

“Missus baked them just last night,” the big man had said, patting his large belly.

They moved on to find Kilborn in a similar situation. He dusted spackling dust from his overalls, shook hands, and then sat on a rock wall to answer their questions. Sally perched on the step up to his truck parked next to the wall, and Earl stood on either side.

“’Ave no idea where that lad might have gone, like I said before. ‘Tis very strange. Maybe the missus was a bit pushy ‘bout marriage. When we married, we lived in a bedsit smaller than Simon’s at first, poor as poor can be. Without the Council housing, we’d still be homeless. Them and the NHS, who saved Martha when she gave birth to Kathy, are services that will forever make me vote against the damned Tories. ‘Course the recent ones have carried on the Iron Lady’s policies without being half as smart as she were. We’d have lost World War Two if they’d been in charge instead of Winnie.”

Earl only half-listened to the workingman’s twisted version of English history that had a ring of truth to it. With only two dinners at the Kilborn house, could Kevin be that close to Simon? But factoring in the truck’s repair and that story about quarter-round, one had to consider that manly discussions might have occurred.

“Did you ever talk about the Lake District, Kevin? Things to do that don’t cost too much money?”

“Sure. I go fishing from time to time. We talked about that. Man talk. Women are generally bored with fishing.”

Bingo, thought Earl.

***

What was the Yanks’ adage about failures? thought Earl. Something related to their version of cricket. The answer came to him after they failed to find Simon at the first two fishing spots Kevin had recommended to the lad. Three strikes and you’re out! Earl turned to face the handyman in the backseat of the station’s pool car.

“Those two spots were a bit questionable, to say the least.”

“Aye, but those twitchers’ blinds still make good spots to seek refuge when the cold winds come roaring down from the mountains. Beats being out on the lakes in a rowboat.”

“You couldn’t start a fire in them for a mash or fish fry. They’d catch fire with one spark. All dead, dry wood.”

“I always have a thermos and packs me catch in wet moss, Inspector. ‘Tis easier to clean the fish at home.”

Earl bet Martha liked that.

“Do you ever run into twitchers?” Sally said without taking her eyes off the narrow and muddy road they were now on that was worse than the first two.

“They’re more common than the birds themselves during summer months, but not where I fish. And those two are old. Next one’s a bit newer, but more distant. We’ll have more of a hike too, so you’ll need your wellies back on, sergeant.”

Earl and Kevin still had theirs, but Sally had removed hers to drive.

Kevin told Sally to pull over when the road widened a bit. “‘Tis a walk from here.”

“And quite a walk from Simon’s bedsit,” Earl said.

“‘Member that wee café we passed?”

(more…)

[Note from Steve: This is the second story about the “Earl of Penrith.” There might be a third. Stay tuned.]

The Recruit

Copyright 2022, Steven M. Moore

DI Earl Wilson was already walking around the crime scene leaving DS Sally Hill to other chores. She’d be taking notes on her moby too, mostly about the obvious; he’d be looking for things that weren’t so obvious. They were a good team.

He was a police veteran who had started out as a patrol constable in London, a “bobby” or “top” as they were called, the latter for the helmet—and then bounced around the country after being promoted from PC to DC and finally DI, finally ending up in the Lake District, where he suspected he would retire someday because he loved hiking and fishing.

He was a big bear of a man, an oversized version of that American telly detective, Columbo, complete with old car and dirty raincoat, but he didn’t smoke cigars and didn’t drink much. In fact, for his age, he was in good shape. A criminal might outrun him, but they’d be hard-pressed to outfight him. He had once broken one’s jaw, but he’d gone to the hospital later to apologize to the hand-cuffed scrote for doing that.

Sally was from the other coast, loved the Lake District as well, and loathed southern England. Her birthplace was Morpeth, a regional capital not far from Newcastle-on-Tyne, so she felt right at home in Penrith that might be considered a left-coast town in comparison to Morpeth, without any political meaning intended—the area along the border with Scotland was a conservative one.

Twenty years younger than her guv’nor, she was coming into her own as Earl’s partner in policing. She was fleet of foot and good enough at martial arts to compensate for her small size, as many a criminal had discovered. She also could turn on the charm, though, if she felt inclined or needed to do so in an interview or interrogation.

“Seven combatants dead, lass. Looks like Fallujah or some other killing fields in the Middle East, not here in our Lake District.”

“Um, I recognize this bloke, Guv,” Sally said, bending over one of the bodies to study the face, its features distorted by the rictus of death. “Ed Chance, muscle for the Crystal Boys. Clean shot to the heart.”

“Turf war between two gangs then? Who’s invading whose patch?”

“Being as near to each other as they are, I’d think they joined forces and were pursuing someone.”

“Going after some yob who betrayed both gangs? Isn’t greed wonderful?” He’d already moved far away from the inglorious seven. Across a pretty lea and about a soccer field away, he halted. “Blood traces here. Whoever they were after stood his ground and blew them all away. Weird.” Earl picked up one shell. “Automatic weapon. Maybe a Chinese copy of an Uzi? We see more of those than the Americans’ AR-style rifles. None of them legal outside our ARUs or military units, of course. And I don’t think our Rambo wasted much ammo. I count only ten shell casings. So maybe a semi-automatic?” His gaze became more distant as he surveyed the abandoned farm. “If this place were drier and had a bit of sagebrush, I’d compare the bloke who did this to the Earps at OK Corral.” He spotted the pathologist and SOCOs’ vans moving up the track that led to the farm’s main buildings. He pointed. “We’ll let Harry and his science lads and Doc Simpson do their bit here. Let’s take a look down there.” He pointed to the main buildings nestled in a dale. “Our morning exercise, lass.”

In the old farmhouse, they found some interesting evidence. An empty sitting room contained only one chair. Ropes that had been sliced through still hung from it. There were some blood traces on the old rug around the chair, new stains to add some color to the old ones.

“Someone was being held here.”

“And maybe tortured?” Sally said.

“But he managed to escape. Our lone shooter with the Uzi copy?”

She walked around the rest of the sitting room and visited the outside hall while he went into the kitchen that featured a relic from the past, a handsome wood stove. In the back corner by the door, he found something more interesting than the stove.

“Lass, back here,” he called out. When she appeared, he pointed to the corpse. “Might be who had the task of guarding the prisoner?” A penknife was sticking in the man’s neck, its damage leaving the man’s head resting in a large pool of blood. Using his many years of experience, Earl put all the data together to make a tentative theory. “Crystal Boys and/or the other gang holds the bloke for whatever reason, he escapes his one guard while they’re off somewhere else, kills the guard, and does a runner, taking the guard’s weapon along as a memento. The gang members return and chase him, he stops and turns, and blows them away.”

“Good enough theory for now. But how does the other gang come to be here?”

Earl shrugged. “They were both after the yob. Maybe he was a snout working against both of them? They were either in business together or temporarily joined forces to take him down, but everyone forgot he had the guard’s weapon.”

“Harry and his SOCOs might be able to refine your theory.”

“Or show it’s completely wrong. In any case, seven gang members, no, eight, counting this yobbie here, are dead. That’s a miracle. Eight against one. And don’t forget the bloke was able to cut through those ropes binding him. He’s good.”

“Admiring him, are you?”

Earl shrugged again. “Enjoying it, I dare say. Eight gang members we no longer have to worry about in our patch, I dare say. And maybe a message to scrotes elsewhere? Is Ed Chance from Manchester?”

“One of their local reps, if memory serves.”

Earl nodded and pulled out his mobile. He told Harry Simpson, the lead SOCO, that his team would need to go over the farm buildings after finishing their work at the shooting site.

“Now the question becomes: Why were all these lovely maggots who live in England’s underbelly here at this old farm?”

They were outside now. She pointed. “There’s a newer building up on the hill, Earl.” He squinted. The lead SOCO was still on the line. That building was nearer the SOCOs, so Earl suggested to Harry that they hit that building first.

“Katie thinks it has surveillance cameras,” the SOCO said, referring to one of his team members.

“It might be why all these thugs were here,” Earl said. “I’m willing to bet the gangs were using the abandoned farm for a manufacturing plant. Fine-tooth comb and all that, lad, and some surveillance video would be much appreciated.”

***

Hours later, Sally and Earl were examining their third surveillance video. The newer building had been a lab to make illegal or controlled pills, and a lot of product was still there, hence the videocams. Number three was wide-angle and provided a panoramic view of the shootout in the vale below.

It was like watching an action film on the telly. A young man came running out of the old farmhouse. Gang members from that same farmhouse poured out in pursuit. Earl thought the young bloke might be between twenty- and thirty-years-old. The seven gained on him because he was limping slightly. Why didn’t they shoot? Suddenly their quarry turned and sprayed them all with bullets. He then disappeared behind the same hill where the drugs lab sat on top, going out of the range of all the cameras.

“Wow!” said Earl.

“I agree!”

They’d been so engrossed in the action that they hadn’t realized that a tall stranger now filled Earl’s office doorframe.

He stood. “Who the hell are you? How’d you get into our CID? And how long have you been watching?”

The stranger smiled. “Rick Barnes, MI5 agent, at your service.” He offered a handshake to Earl, who ignored the offer as if the hand belonged to a zombie-like Putin. The stranger then showed his credentials. “Duty sergeant waved me through and no one else tried to stop me. And I saw most of what you saw. It has increased my appreciation for that lad’s skill.”

“Okay. Just what do you want? Why is MI5 interested in this case?”

(more…)

Let’s all give a shoutout of support for all American veterans and their families today! Whatever your politics are, our veterans don’t receive nearly the support they deserve. And cheering them on in some parade isn’t enough! Too many are struggling economically, even fighting homelessness and physical handicaps as consequences from their service to our country. “I thank you for your service” doesn’t do it. We should all pressure the politicians to enact and support the veterans programs! Write them ASAP.

[Note from Steve: It’s been a while since I’ve posted some short fiction. My only excuse is that short stories and novellas are like dashes and intermediate races, and I’ve been running a few marathons by writing and publishing several novels, notably finishing the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series and three novels from the new “Inspector Steve Morgan” series. I think this one turned out rather well—you can tell me what you think by commenting or by using my contact page at this website—and it tells readers a little bit about how I prepare to write my novels as well! Enjoy.]

***

The plate number led them to a hire-car agency. The saloon had been leased by John Smythe, a name that could be an alias. Neither the abductor nor the abductee matched any records on HOLMES after their facial recognition program was applied. Either the blow-ups of the stills from the video were too grainy, or the man and woman’s faces weren’t in the police database.

All that was after they talked to the publican at the posh pub.

“He met her here,” the corpulent bloke had said. “Weren’t regulars, but upper crust like most of our guests. He bought her drinks, but they hit her fast, like. He said something about taking her home.”

The date drug? Earl had thought. That would seem to confirm an abduction. But for what purpose? Did the abductor run an escort service? Porn podcast? He didn’t look sleazy enough to be someone in the sex trade looking for new “recruits.” Ransom? No mispers cases had been reported.

Sally had also noted that the woman’s abductor, if that was what he was, acted and looked more sophisticated than the average scrote.

“I’m going to run the program again, this time examining society pages.”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Earl figured that would be a waste of time but wouldn’t take Sally too long. In the local broadsheet, the society pages often became only one page, unlike in the big-city papers, London’s in particular. He got busy querying other police departments on whether they had any similar cases. Away from the big cities, getting things up on HOLMES could take a while. In particular, they could have open mispers cases still not posted.

But Sally had success. John Smythe was Mr. Daniel Clarke, the PA for the district’s MP. Was he acting alone or for his employer? Earl checked and discovered that the MP was in London at the time of the abduction, so the answer to his question was indeterminate. A trip to the MP’s local residence was required.

***

The estate was large but not gated. It was nearer Penrith than where the shooting had occurred; the posh pub was even nearer. They pulled into and around the circular drive and parked in an area where maybe carriages had parked at the end of the 1800s; but the house had probably seen many improvements since then, some in poor taste as far as Earl was concerned. He spotted some huge AC units on one side. Not a bad idea, he thought. Summers are often scorching now. Worse down south—another reason to retire in the Lake District. He supposed heating upgrades had also occurred, their effectiveness dependent on redoing a lot of insulation and caulking.

How much does it cost to run this place? Like many MPs, Sir Richard Bixby was probably out of touch with the common man and more interested in ensuring his spot among the privileged elites. But he still needed to get people’s votes every so often!

Sally must have been having similar thoughts because she said, “I believe we’re going to be visiting with the upper crust, Guv.”

“Don’t worry about it, lass. An MP puts his pants on just like I do. Let me handle the toff.”

They walked to the foreboding front door, really two large oaken ones. He leaned on the bell, hearing it echo within the mansion. A maid came to the door, not a butler.

He flashed his warrant card. “Inspector Earl Wilson and Sergeant Sally Hill from Penrith PD, madam. We would like to speak to MP Richard Bixby or Mr. Daniel Clarke, if you would be so kind.”

She frowned, took his warrant card and examined it, and returned it. She then looked disparagingly at Sally. “The master is in London doing the people’s business. I will have to see if Mr. Clarke is here. Please wait.” She slammed the door shut.

“Does she have a right to be so snooty?” Sally asked.

“She’s not comparing us to herself, lass; she just knows we aren’t in the MP’s social class. Don’t worry. Our Mr. Clarke probably doesn’t win her approval either. Servants are often snooty and also very protective of their toffs. They’re paid to be that way.”

“No wonder aristocracy’s a dying institution.”

“The aristocracy can’t die out fast enough for me. That includes that whole lot of Windsors, of course.”

Five minutes later, the door opened. This time it was an old butler. He barely glanced at the warrant card. “Follow me, officers.”

They saw a bit of the mansion’s interior as they wound through some halls, ending up at the entrance to a study. It contained one large desk and a much smaller one. Seated at the smaller, Earl recognized Daniel Clarke, the man from the video file. He stood and walked towards them. “Have Dora bring a tea service, James. We must treat our guests properly.”

“Yes sir.”

James left them alone with the PA, who gestured towards a half circle of four comfortable chairs arranged around a huge fireplace. “Please have a seat.” They did. “What brings you to Bixby Manor, officers?”

Sally placed the stills taken from the video on the small table at the center of the half-circle. “We matched your image here to one in our local broadsheet. Who’s the woman, Mr. Clarke?”

“Someone who could give the honorable Mr. Bixby a lot of negative publicity. She’s Eleanor Bixby, the MP’s wife. They’re going through a rough patch right now.”

“I see,” Earl said. “So you were sent to collect her at the pub and avoid the negative publicity?”

He shrugged. “I’m the PA for both the MP and his wife. He wasn’t here, so he had me act for him. That’s part of my job, Inspector.”

“Am I right in suspecting you used some GHB, ketamine, or rohyponol to ensure her cooperation?”

“Why would you ever suspect that? Eleanor and I are friends. She was drunk, but she came willingly.”

“Doesn’t look like she came willingly to me,” Sally said.

“You’ll have to prove that, Sergeant.” Clarke stood. “I think we’re done here.”

“You forgot the tea,” Earl said. “And we’ll need to talk to Mrs. Bixby.”

“You may assume the tea is only for me, and she’s not here either.”

“Where is she? Will she return soon? We can wait.”

“She’s also in London. When there are official galas, she usually accompanies the MP. I believe this one is sponsored by King Charles III. It’s a fund raiser for some of his pet environmental causes, so there are some political trappings to it. I’ll ring the maid who will show you out.”

“The royal brush-off,” Earl said to Sally once behind the wheel of their EV from the carpool. “I wonder if the MP treats all his constituents in such a boorish manner.”

“He’s hiding something, Guv. Eleanor Bixby seemed to be drugged and wasn’t going with him willingly.”

“Agreed. But is whatever Clarke is hiding sufficient motivation for murder? That remains to be seen. We have one more person we can query.”

“Who’s that?”

“Whoever leads the MP’s security detail while he’s in London. I know a fellow who does that for the PM. He’ll surely know who’s doing it for the honorable Richard Bixby. Sometimes it’s all about who you know, Sally.”

“Indeed. And it’s more important to know who does the real work and not the lazy politicians. Why don’t you call your informant now?”

Earl looked at his watch. “No time like the present.”

***

The PM was now a member of the Labour Party, but Harry Rawlins, the head of his security detail, knew the head of Tory Bixby’s security detail. He suggested that Earl call him after hearing about the case of Declan Flaherty’s shooting.

“Sam Jenkins is a good bloke. Mention my name because he’s not likely to give you any information about Bixby otherwise. Make sure he knows you’re a copper too. He hates the media.”

Earl laughed. He’d met Harry in the Royal Navy. Both had been much younger then, eighteen-year-old lads who had no idea about what they were going to do with their lives at the time.

“Was he a navy man too?”

“Army. Some traditional Scottish regiment, if memory serves. We’re still drinking buddies even with that and working for MPs from different parties, of course. Sam went to Peel too, worked in the Met for a while, and then resigned to go into the security business. Better hours and better pay. You know the story.”

“Let me have his mobile number. I’ll give him a call.”

Earl chatted with Sam for a few minutes about their adventures at the Peel Centre, policing, and the security business. He then got serious. He first explained what had happened to Declan again. He then asked, “We have a few leads gleaned from the novelist’s own notes. One we’re considering relates to your MP.”

“That old toff getting his lily-white hands dirty, is he?”

Earl explained what they’d seen on the video. “We queried Clarke about it. He said she had too much to drink.”

“Could be. She’s a wild one, that woman. But maybe not, ‘cause I doubt a few drinks would shut her down. Eleanor’s about fifteen years younger than my boss, and there are rumors she’s having an affair with someone. That someone could be Clarke. Lots of opportunity for those two to get it on, I dare say.”

“But why would Clarke want to kill Flaherty?”

“Maybe there’s more going on, and Clarke thought Flaherty knows more than he does.”

Earl thought a moment. “Has your MP Bixby hired a PI to follow either Clarke or his wife?”

“Not that I know. Aye, Clarke might have thought your victim was a PI, but your question’s still relevant. I don’t know Clarke that well—he stays in your area for the most part—but it would seem that killing a PI is going a bit too far.”

“Mrs. Bixby is there with your MP. Do things seem normal between them? No obvious barneys between the husband and wife?”

“Old Bixby’s barneys mostly occur with other politicians, even Tories. His life is politics. He’s lost a rag with several MPs and basically slandered the PM on the floor, arguing that crime is out of control everywhere, for example.”

“Good campaign theme, I suppose. Um, maybe that’s why the missus has someone on the side. He doesn’t have the time or energy to fulfill his duties as a husband.”

“Oh, she’s important for his public persona, so he coddles her. She’s a lovely ornament he can show off at state functions. They’ll both be dressed to the nines at the King’s gala, I assure you. In fact, she and the old Queen Consort get along rather well. Whether that’s a political asset for Bixby is questionable, of course. The whole royal family is mostly irrelevant now and not so popular.”

“What’s Eleanor’s background?”

“I can send you information on both the MP and his wife, all London-oriented and not that relative to Penrith. That part’s on you. You might spot something that’s relevant to your case all the same.”

“Thanks. That might help. And, if you think of anything else, let me know. When I’m in London some time, we should throw down a few pints with Harry.”

“Sounds like a plan. Good luck on the case.”

***

Neither Sam’s information nor the local information readily available on the area’s MP and his wife were enlightening, though. While Earl went on to other items they’d noticed in Declan’s notes, Sally dug deeper into the local records.

She went to Earl’s office to bring something to his attention. She waited patiently until he got off the phone.

“Well, that kills two other leads,” he said. “We might have to return to have a chat with that publican to see if he can remember how many drinks Eleanor actually had. I’m still betting Clarke spiked them.”

“Maybe. I found something interesting. Richard and Eleanor got married only ten years ago. Her maiden name was Clarke. She’s Daniel’s cousin. I suspect she got him the PA post.”

“And, unless he’s committing incest, he’s not her lover. We need to find out if she really has one, and, if she does, who he is. Our friendly publican at The Roadside Inn might be able to answer both questions.”

“How so?”

“Daniel met her at the pub. Suppose she was a regular there and was waiting for someone else?”

“You have a devious mind. Clarke could have gone there to prevent anything embarrassing to occur for his boss. Or maybe she was already there with her lover.”

“So her cousin could have been playing the role of a PI. If we go back earlier into that video record, we might find her real lover.”

“He might have been waiting for her. The publican could tell us that. If we get any sort of description from him, we can then find him in the video record, whenever he arrived. Let’s go.”

“I was going to do lunch, Guv.”

“In our canteen?” She nodded. “Come on. I’ll wager that the pub has a much superior menu, and our business will motivate the publican to be forthcoming. My treat.”

***

The pub was busy with its early upper-crust lunch crowd, but not that busy. The publican sat at the table with them after bringing them some promising meat pies and two ales.

“Aye, that woman was here waiting quite a while. Then this one bloke shows up, and I thought he was going to have a go at her right there. Marra, there was a lot of heavy panting, hugs, and kisses. But they sat, and they ordered drinks. The bloke gets a call on his moby and dashes out, leaving her upset. Half hour later, the second bloke makes an appearance, the one who took her away. They had some angry words, and then the drinks hit her, I guess.”

“Did the second man doctor her drinks?” Earl asked.

The publican frowned and shrugged. “Wasn’t paying a lot of attention, Inspector. Nights are a lot busier. Every toff around the area loves this place. I figured the first bloke was the new boyfriend, and the second the jealous ex. But what do I know? I stay out of those things as much as possible unless someone gets rowdy.” He flexed his biceps. “Then I can even step in myself.”

“Can you describe the first bloke?”

The publican stole a chip, scrunched up his face, and pondered the question. “Saw more of him than the second, I ‘spose, but I keep the lights dim at night. Actually, come to think of it, he left via the backdoor, the exit nearest the car park. Seemed in a hurry, like. Anyways, I saw his mug clearly then.” He ran a finger from between his right eyebrow and right ear, down the cheek, and to the chin. “Old pale scar there on the side of his face. Bushy eyebrows he had, hair thinning a bit, big ears, wide eyes. Didn’t note the color.”

(more…)

[Note from Steve: It’s been a while since I’ve posted some short fiction. My only excuse is that short stories and novellas are like dashes and intermediate races, and I’ve been running a few marathons by writing and publishing several novels, notably finishing the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” series and three novels from the new “Inspector Steve Morgan” series. I think this short story turned out rather well—you can tell me what you think by commenting or by using my contact page at this website—and it lets readers know a little bit about how I prepare to write my novels as well! Enjoy.]

***

There were three people left when the publican announced closing time at The Pink Hippo. Declan Flaherty decided that was okay; he needed a fag anyway. He stuffed the notes he’d made on napkins into his coat pocket, finished his second pint, and left the establishment to the old tippling couple and the plump publican, winking at the old woman.

She’d probably known he was a stranger. He wasn’t a tall man but wiry and muscular. She might even see him as a handsome bloke. Some women saw the introverted author that way, perhaps identifying him with one of his protagonists if they knew he was an author; some men were jealous when they eyed him, especially at book events. Usually the women were the ones who read his novels, mystery/thriller stories that had an eclectic mix of romance and suspense. If the men came along to his book events, they often did so reluctantly. Of course, that was a common occurrence in any cultural event in Greater London. Men were stereotypically sports addicts; women were a bit more eclectic with their entertainment choices.

He wasn’t sure that the Lake District was comparable to London in that regard, of course. Certainly The Pink Hippo pub’s setting wouldn’t be one used for a cultural event, but he liked the out-of-the-way places to have a pint or two and study the local clientele. Those notes might eventually be used in some novel. Their number had increased after he left the more posh Riverside Inn that was nearer Penrith center.

Outside he stopped at the edge of the little square and lit up. That gave his eyes time to adjust to the dim light. There were only four anemic street lamps at each corner of the small cobblestone-covered square, their light diminished even further by their dirty glass covers. Part of the charm, Flaherty thought. Peace and quiet that were hard to find in London.

He’d had the idea to set his next novel in the Lake District, part of Cumbria and a scenic and rustic area filled with vistas not found anywhere else in England. The largest town was Penrith that was much nearer the Irish Sea than where he was at. The square and its pub were more inland, in a hamlet east of the town. He supposed they called it a city. Even Penrith was smaller than nearby cities south of there—Birmingham, Liverpool, and Manchester among them. He knew most of them, but not Penrith nor the area around it.

He followed his usual practice: Scout out the area, get an idea about the locals, their habits, and their speech patterns, and just jot down ideas in general—he called the latter what-ifs and possible themes, and they might later be woven through and around the eventual plot. In this case, one idea was that major cities south of the area would bring crime into the area around Penrith, their gangs looking to expand their territories. Not exactly smart from the business perspective—the population was smaller—but maybe the competition would be less if they were the first to get their foot in the door.

The night wasn’t clear. He’d already had a few clear ones when the sky would be filled with stars, many more than one could see in those big cities. That night it was foggy, though; except for the quaintness of the surrounding buildings, one could imagine he was in some squalid London neighborhood—no rain but wet fog blowing all the way in from the coast just west beyond Penrith.

He’d finished half the smoke when he saw a man come out of an alleyway and walk towards him. Another tippler about to be disappointed that the pub had closed? He just managed to understand how wrong that guess was when the man pulled out a gun and started shooting.

***

“Good that you could join us,” Doc Simpson said to the arriving coppers. “You two deserved to have your slumbers disturbed too.”

Harry the SOCO glanced at Doc and then smiled and winked at the new arrivals. “Doc’s always in a great mood, isn’t he?”

Of course, DI Earl Wilson and DS Sally Hill knew that was an instance of Harry’s habitual and sarcastic irony. Yet two hours before dawn was a time when most people in that Lake District’s hamlet where the shooting had occurred would indeed be sleeping—an ungodly hour, Earl thought.

He was a police veteran who had started out as a patrol constable in London, a “bobby” or “top” as they were called, the latter for the helmet—and then bounced around after being promoted from PC to DC and finally DI, finally ending up in the Lake District, where he suspected he would retire someday because he loved hiking and fishing.

He was a big bear of a man, an oversized version of that American telly detective, Columbo, complete with old car and dirty raincoat, but he didn’t smoke cigars and didn’t drink much. In fact, for his age, he was in good shape. A criminal might outrun him, but they’d be hard-pressed to outfight him. He had once broken one’s jaw, but he’d gone to the hospital later to apologize to the hand-cuffed scrote for doing that.

Sally was from the other coast and loathed southern England. Her birthplace was Morpeth, a regional capital not far from Newcastle-on-Tyne, so she felt right at home in Penrith that might be considered a left-coast town in comparison to Morpeth, without any political meanings intended—the area on the border with Scotland was a conservative one.

Twenty years younger than her Guv, she was coming into her own as Earl’s partner in policing. She was fleet of foot and good enough at martial arts to compensate for her small size, as many a criminal had discovered. She also could turn on the charm, though, if she felt inclined or needed to do so in an interview or interrogation.

Ignoring Doc Simpson, who was indeed always of sour disposition at best, Earl said to Harry, “Mind if we look around?”

“No, as long as you stay outside my five-meter circle around Doc here, but tread carefully.”

Earl jerked a thumb at the nearest of the two vans, an ambulance parked next to the SOCO’s van. “Do we have witnesses?” He was referring to a man and woman sitting at the back and swinging their legs back and forth as they drank tea.

Earl knew there’d been two ambulances. The first on the scene had rushed the shooting victim to the hospital with both blues and twos, surely a rude awakening for light sleepers in the hamlet as it sped along on its way to the nearest NHS facility.

“They found the victim. Fortunately.” Doc was packing up. Having no dead body to play with, the pathologist had only been collecting blood samples. There were plenty within that five-meter circle, so it was also where the victim had fallen.

“Go have a chinwag with them,” Earl told Sally. “I’m going to have that walk-around.”

Doc would eventually post reports about wounds and the possible ID of the weapon that had caused them on HOLMES, the national police database, the latter helped along by any bullets dug out of the victim at the hospital. Harry would add his contribution there as well. The rest of the investigation would be up to Sally and Earl.

As he walked around the small square, he decided there was no good hiding place within it. No trees or walls to hide behind and no benches to sit on and pretend to be reading a paper, although that would be an absurd cover considering the dim light. A chemist’s shop wasn’t yet open and was on one side opposite the pub; it probably offered only a small variety of medicines, its business mostly limited to non-prescription over-the-counter items. Except for its sign, its facade looked like the rest of the buildings that contained cheap flats. The square was some distance from High Street and not in a safe part of town, but Earl knew the pub was popular with the locals. In summer months, swarming tourists might even find it, much to the locals’ disgust.

Four alleyways entered the square perpendicular to each side; they originated in surrounding streets. Earl checked out each one. In the third, he found the hideaway he’d searched for, a place where someone had waited to ambush the victim. The remains of a half dozen or more fags had been scattered around at one spot just inside the dark alley. He eyed the pub and confirmed that from where Doc was crouched the spot in the alleyway was invisible. The fags’ butts would provide DNA evidence, which wouldn’t do them much good in the investigation unless they had something on record to match…like a suspect’s swab!

By the time he walked back to the crime scene, Doc had left with the second ambulance and the couple had disappeared. Harry looked ready to scarper as well.

“You’ll want to check that alley over there,” he said to Harry, pointing to it. “I’m sure that’s where the shooter waited for his victim to come out of the pub.”

“Will do.”

Earl approached Sally, who was entering data into her mobile with a stylus. “Any joy from that couple?” She shook her head in the negative. “Let’s go then. Not much more we can do here. This was a pre-meditated attack. Maybe the victim, if he’s survived, can tell us the why or even the who. We’ll stop by the hospital on the way back to the station.”

***

“He might be a bit groggy, but he was talking to me,” the NHS ER doctor said. “Be brief, Inspector.”

Earl nodded. Sally and he walked to the patient’s room; Earl peeked in. “No surprise. The bloke’s watching BBC One. Looks comfy.” He entered; Sally followed. “DI Earl Wilson here, Mr. Flaherty. Feel up to answering some questions?”

Declan smiled. “I was wondering when rozzers would appear. Come in, Inspector.” He used the remote to turn off the telly. “I’ll just need a few sips of water for my dry mouth before I’m interrogated by you.”

Earl wondered how the victim could look so good after surgery where three bullets had been removed. He had them in an evidence bag already. They now knew he was an author, not a famous one but popular enough. His stubble and wild black hair was sprinkled with some gray, and his intelligent blue eyes had lost none of their clarity from the pain killers. Stretched out on the hospital bed, Earl could see that he wasn’t a tall man; he was muscular, though, and a bit pale now. Who wouldn’t be? Not in bad shape considering, with a smile that Sally couldn’t resist returning.

“Not an interrogation, Mr. Flaherty,” she said. “We just need to hear what you know about the shooting to help us go out and find the shooter.”

Declan eyed her. “The proverbial silent partner speaks, and a winsome and lovely lass she is. A much better sight for my tired eyes than you are, Inspector.”

“DS Sally Hill, my sergeant,” groused Earl. He pulled up a chair beside the bed and sat; she followed his lead on the other side and took out her mobile and stylus to take notes.

Is she showing leg to the Irishman? he asked himself. The brogue had been obvious from the start. Earl sorted the author’s water. “Now, Mr. Flaherty, if you would be so kind to go over the events of last night and this morning for us? Start by explaining how you, an obvious visitor to our area, came to choose that particular pub.”

The writer’s answers to his questions were short, clear, and precise. Earl could tell he was a skilled observer. He supposed many writers had to be like that to make their plots and characters come alive. Declan’s trip to the pub, the second of the night, had been suggested by the woman who owned and ran the boarding house where he’d been staying. He wanted to experience some local color. He got it! In his own red blood! On second thought, that wasn’t local: They needed more information about the man’s background.

The writer explained why he was visiting the area, how he went about plotting his novels, and his background: Born in Cork, resident of Dublin then London, and he even told them who his agent and publisher were. He also had no idea who had targeted him.

“Interesting bloke,” Earl observed to Sally upon returning to their carpool vehicle parked in the hospital’s car park. His own motor was on its last legs, so he often “borrowed” one of the station’s little EVs that didn’t have much range but could outrace the older and heavier patrol vehicles, especially with blues and twos clearing the way. “I’ll let you interview that boarding house lady. Maybe one of her guests had some angry words with Mr. Flaherty? The Irish diaspora is still sometimes unpopular with locals. I’m going to make some calls, one to Flaherty’s publishing house and the other to his agent. It’s also possible Flaherty made someone angry in London who has followed him here. Either one might be able to tell me that.”

She smiled. “A literary critic? I don’t think the boarding house lady, publisher, or agent will offer any leads.”

“No stone unturned, I always say. Obviously someone targeted Declan Flaherty. They waited in that alleyway until he exited the pub and then shot him. It’s our job to find out who and why.”

***

The lady who ran the boarding house was also Irish but a longtime resident of the area, a widow named Mrs. O’Hara. She’d lived in the Lake District long enough that her Irish brogue was sprinkled with Cumbrian dialect. Sally had lived long enough in the area that she had no trouble understanding her.

“Mr. Flaherty writes novels, Sergeant. I have a few of them here, and he signed them for me. Imagine! ‘Twas wonderful to meet a real writer, like. Hard to believe someone shot the poor man. Are you married, Sergeant Hill?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Um, I’d go after him in a heartbeat if I were your age. ‘Course, my Mike were a handsome feller too. Dinna write. Could barely make it through our Penrith broadsheet. You ‘owt to chat’im up, lass. He’s not married either.”

Sally didn’t blush. People said lots of things in interviews, many of them inappropriate. A copper had to get used to it. “I’m really here to ask you how he got along with your other guests. Were there any barneys at your dinner table?”

“I offer breakfast and dinner, Sergeant. Right now I only have two other boarders, a missus and a feller. She’s Bonnie Ellison and has been with me for donkey’s years. She’s a nurse at the hospital. Randall Bradley’s a traveling salesman that’s with me every third week. ‘Course during tourist season, I’m full up. Twitchers, hikers, fishermen, and so forth, attracted to our great outdoors.”

“Did Mr. Flaherty have any barneys with Ms. Ellison or Mr. Bradley?”

“Not one, Luv. We all got along famously. One big happy family, like. Every dinner was a party among friends. They’re early enough so everyone can enjoy the nightlife afterwards if they’re keen on that.”

“Did you and Mr. Flaherty get along?”

“Famously. It was like having George Moore living under the same roof. And ‘twas a brilliant conversationalist too, he was.”

She knew Mr. Moore was a Irish novelist from the twentieth century’s early years. Perhaps Mrs. O’Hara was well read? “I understand that you recommended that pub to Mr. Flaherty. Any particular reason?”

“Aye. ‘Twas Mike’s favorite. I used to go with him sometimes. Back then we’d play cards or do darts. I had no idea it’s become that dangerous now, Sergeant.”

“He wasn’t shot in the pub, Mrs. O’Hara. And you couldn’t have known that someone wanted to kill him.”

“Aye, but I’ll think twice ‘bout recommending The Pink Hippo now.”

***

The publisher’s office in London put Earl through to the acquisition editor, a woman named Sally Field; she’d guided all of Flaherty’s novels from manuscripts to published books. She was aghast about what had occurred.

“I always told Declan to be careful. He had this thing about scouting around for local color. He’d often ride along with detectives at times, which wasn’t all that bad, but he’d also interview some unsavory characters too. I don’t know that any of them would want to shoot him, though. He always said that in his novels he changed names to protect the innocent as well as the guilty. He wrote fiction, after all.”

“Was he successful doing it?”

“Quite good, I dare say. He isn’t going to win any Nobel or Booker Prize, Inspector, but his books sell. They’re mystery novels, crime novels to be precise, with lots of suspense and thrills, even a bit of romance. In this business, few successes often lead to more successes, even though it’s a competitive field.”

“What about his competition? Any jealous authors out there? Or someone who thinks that he stole their ideas?”

“Because he researched his stories so much, no one would dare claim plagiarism. Most authors skip the research, just using the local knowledge they already possess. I suppose there are a lot of jealous authors, but why would that lead them to shoot him? That just doesn’t happen, Inspector Wilson.”

Flaherty’s agent who lived near the university city of Oxford was even less help. An Irish ex-pat as well, Flaherty was Sean Harris’s only novelist. He handled authors of children’s books and academic authors, mostly university professors. The two had known each other at Trinity College in Dublin. Sean couldn’t believe his friend had been shot either.

“You’ll never meet a nicer person, Inspector. He’s a bit introverted, so I think his publisher takes advantage of him sometimes. He’s also a true storyteller. My work with him now basically just involves helping him to get a manuscript ready. I only give them a cursory editing because his manuscripts are clean and the publisher has its own editing staff. The turnaround with them is a bit speedier now because his fan base is always querying about when the next novel will be released.”

“I guess he makes a good living?”

“Good but not great. For him, for me, and for his publisher. Everybody wins a bit when an author is successful.”

***

(more…)

[Note from Steve: A bit shorter than the other novellas, but still a British-style mystery. Enjoy.]

What’s in a Game?

Copyright, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Two

Ellie pulled photos of Peterson, the three victims, and ones of about a dozen bodyguards out of her large purse. Dotty pointed at the first.

“That’s Joel, of course.” She then pointed at another, one of the victims. “Saw that one once. He was with these two.” She’s pointed to two of the known bodyguards. “I don’t recognize anyone else. Sorry.”

“Hear any names?” Steve said.

“The first feller, the ugly bastard, was called Artie. Joel was more respectful towards him than the other two. Does that help?”

“Maybe,” Ellie said. “When did you see those three?”

Dotty thought a moment. “I guess Joel had a meeting with them. He called them business associates. That was obviously before I broke up with Joel, maybe two or three weeks ago? The whole experience annoyed me because Joel had asked me to meet him at his place at that time.”

“Did you know he entertained some of these blokes? Set up poker nights and played with them from time to time, to be precise.”

She grimaced. “No. I would have kicked his arse out earlier if I’d known that. My old man was a drunk and had a gambling addiction. Horses mostly. He’d lose a week’s wages and then come home and beat the crap out of my mum. I can’t stand that type of behavior.”

“Do you have any idea where Joel is now?” Steve said.

“Probably shagging some other gullible woman if he’s not at home! He’s a good-looking bloke as you can see in your photo, so women are attracted to him. Biggest error in my life, I dare say.”

“Did you know that Joel Peterson is an alias?” Ellie said.

Dotty blanched. “I really am a damn fool! What’s his real name?”

“I wish we knew. We’ll ask him when we catch him. Anywhere you can think he might be hiding?”

“He was always a bit circumspect, and now I know why. I don’t want to know why you want him, though. And he’d better not be hiding in my summer cottage either. We want there once. I inherited it from my father. Only good thing he did after driving my mum to her grave. Surprised the hell out of me. I think he purchased it for his mistresses. I’m thinking about selling it because it’s mostly a tax drain.”

“Could we have the address?”

Dotty wrote something on a notepad, ripped off the sheet, and handed it to Ellie. She studied it.

“It’s near Penrith. Quite a little journey.”

Ellie nodded. She’d put it in her report, thinking it might be worth visiting sometime as the case progressed…or stalled.

***

Back in the unmarked squad car, Ellie said to Steve, “What did you think about that?”

“Brutally honest, I dare say. She mightn’t like coppers, but she despises Joel Peterson. Probably more so now. Can’t say I blame her.”

“That’s my take as well. At least we learned we’ll be looking for Harry Stone and Ozzie Holly.”

“Think they were two of the three bodyguards present?”

“No. I don’t know which one Artie had there, but the other two were probably bodyguards of the other victims. But we can look for Harry and Ozzie to start. Let’s go back to the station and try to locate one of them, now that we have some names.”

“We might find them here in Newcastle,” Steve said. “I have a friend in CID here, DS Barry Waters. We can borrow his computer. Same databases, including HOLMES.”

“Lawrence mightn’t like us to do that,” Ellie said. She was new enough to want to avoid her DI’s disapproval.

“Um. He’d probably do the same and approve of our initiative.”

“Okay. Give me directions.” She knew there were three Newcastle police stations, and she didn’t know the way to any of them. Meeting with Steve’s friend would at least show her where one was for future reference.

***

Barry was a big black block as large as Steve; his parents came from Nigeria, and the two giants talked sports for five minutes.

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but we’re on a mission,” she reminded them.

“Um, yes, so we are,” Steve said, a bit embarrassed. “Barry and I usually have a chinwag like this over a few pints.”

Barry eyed Ellie. “Too much London in the lass, Steve.” He now smiled at her. “In the Yard, I used to be as serious as you are, Ellie. We’re a bit more laid back here in Northumbria. But okay, what’s the gig?”

She explained their mission.

“Um, yes, we can use my computer to see if at least one of those two yobs has a local address. Drugs are sold all over the northeast now, but the VIPs like to congregate here in Newcastle.”

“These bodyguards aren’t exactly VIPs,” Ellie said.

“They’re right up there in rank, Luv, because they have other tasks to perform. The chief says to kill someone, for example, and the bodyguard, really the big man’s aide, arranges it. They’re not the grunts in the drugs armies; they’re the colonels obeying the generals’ orders.”

“You’re just full of metaphors, aren’t you?”

“I do my best.”

After another fifteen minutes, they had an address for Harry Stone, a house on the way back to Morpeth. They stopped there.

***

“How do you want to play this?” Ellie said to Steve, still rankled by all the sports talk.

“Ring the doorbell and show our warrant cards?”

“And maybe get shot? You wouldn’t last long in London.”

“Okay, big city copper. How do you want to play it?”

“‘Twas I asking you. Barry sent us here, after wasting our time discussing football and rugby.”

He laughed, but she was now peering through a dirty window.

“I don’t think we have to worry about how to proceed,” she said. “There are three bodies on the floor.”

He looked in over her shoulder. “Three plus three makes six!”

“My, my, the sports fan just graduated from nursery school.” She went to another window nearer the door, broke a pane, and reached in to open the door. She turned and smiled at Steve. “In London, we call that probable cause. Now we can debate whom to call, Morpeth or Newcastle?”

“It’s Morpeth’s case, our case.” He hesitated at the open door. “Think they’re the three bodyguards?”

“You were the one who said three plus three. Call DI Lawrence. Whether this is good or bad for our case, he’ll want to know.”

***

“I’m not sure this is progress,” Lawrence said.

The three were standing outside the open door watching Doc and SOCOs doing their dance again.

“At least we know Joel Peterson, or whoever he is,” Ellie said, “is our prime suspect now. This looks like a hit to eliminate witnesses.”

“Maybe,” Steve said. “But why didn’t these three just shoot Peterson when he shot their bosses?”

“Good question, lad,” Lawrence said, “and I’ll offer up two possible answers: One, these three were in it and killed after the fact; or two, none of the four were, and someone was hiding somewhere and popped the three mob bosses, and Peterson and these three did a runner before the killer could shoot them. I’m guessing all four not left in that loft knew how to take care of themselves, including Peterson, unless he’s also dead somewhere else. Ah, here’s Max.”

(more…)