[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…)

[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 One

DI Matthew Lawrence stood with DS Ellie Jones, looking into the loft. He called it that because he could imagine that some artist might have leased the space, although it did have some furniture: A large table was surrounded by seven chairs. Three bodies slumped in three of the chairs. The other four looked like they were pushed back in a hurry.

“Messy,” Lawrence said. Pathologist Littleton and SOCO Heath were trying to keep out of each other’s way as they circled the table. “Card game for seven. Think the other four killed the three victims and scarpered?”

“Kind of violent for a friendly card game,” Ellie said. “All the wagers are still in the center of the table. Four hands are face down as if those four had to run to the loo. We should talk to the building’s owner.”

“Steve’s talking to him. I want to first take a look around as soon as Doc and the SOCOs let us.”

Steve was DS Kirkland, Ellie’s counterpart on Lawrence’s team. She was the new member, but she already had one murder investigation under her belt with the Morpeth Police Department. She was hoping this one wouldn’t be so strange, although three bodies versus one didn’t bode well.

“I’ll sort the constables and organize a neighborhood canvass.”

Lawrence nodded, although he seemed preoccupied with other thoughts. She guessed a canvass would be a waste of time in the old neighborhood. She’d seen worse as a DC in London, but the residents in this one wouldn’t have much use for coppers either.

***

Lawrence stopped the pathologist on his way out. He knew that Andrew Littleton barely tolerated him and would take his time, no matter how much the DI would try to speed things up.

“Execution style, right?”

“You guess correctly, Inspector.” Doc flashed a wry smile. “And I’m guessing the card game was rudely interrupted by it considering the money and chips still on the table. But that’s all you have for now. And you’ll be waiting a bit longer for anything more from me. I usually don’t get three bodies at once.”

“Give me a drugs report when you get around to it, but what we have is all we need to get started. I think these yobs were gangsters. Hardly makes sense to call them victims.”

“Like ‘live by the sword, die by the sword’?”

“Something like that. I know who can identify them and confirm my theory.”

“Paul won’t like that you invade his patch.”

“That’s too bad. The stench is still in the air. They smoked weed here. That alone suggests the drugs business might be involved.”

“No ash trays, Matt.”

“Maybe from earlier then. Artificial courage for a killer.”

“Could be. Have a ball, Inspector.”

After Doc left and the SOCOs finished, Lawrence didn’t look around very much; there wasn’t much to see. He watched Doc’s aides carry out the body bags to the meat wagon and shook his head. My peaceful Morpeth isn’t immune to violence.

He went downstairs to talk to the landlord.

***

Mr. Patel, the building’s owner, didn’t look all that troubled. Lawrence thought he might be Hindu, not Sikh, because there was no headdress. Both were ubiquitous throughout the UK because of the historical connections with India, but to Lawrence they all chattered on in a special sing-song dialect that would suggest to most people they were nervous individuals. Patel wasn’t; he seemed resigned instead.

He approached the two; Steve had been having a chinwag with Patel, but Lawrence wanted to get his own read on the bloke.

“Mr. Patel doesn’t know too much about his renter, Guv,” Steve said.

“Kept himself to himself,” Patel said before Steve could continue, “as I was explaining to your sergeant. Didn’t see him except when rent was due. He’s lived here for only two months.”

“Did you collect any information about him, more than what’s on the lease? Employment and employers, references, previous leases, that sort of thing?”

The owner waved his hand to indicate the neighborhood. “This is my worst property because the neighborhood is a tip. Isn’t that obvious? I’ve had many renters skip out on me.”

“Do you report that?” Steve said.

Patel shrugged. “Nothing comes of it.” He smiled at Lawrence. “Maybe you plods will pay more attention to three murders?”

“We’ll do our best,” Lawrence said with a wink at Steve. “I don’t suppose you were around last night?”

“Like I told your sergeant, I was at my daughter’s birthday party.”

“Wish her my best. Could you provide us a copy of the lease? We need the full name. At the very least, we can charge your renter with hosting an illegal card game.”

“That’s illegal?” Patel said with a smile.

“We usually don’t crack down on that, but it’s using a private residence as a casino without a proper license.”

“Because there was cash on the table?”

“That’s the evidence, sir.”

Patel shook his head. “I don’t think Joel Peterson knew about that casino law. He certainly didn’t care when neighbors complained about the comings and goings for the games. Some might have called you plods.”

Lawrence only shrugged.

***

“Joel Peterson doesn’t have form,” Ellie said as she and Steve found chairs in front of Lawrence in his office. “In fact, he didn’t exist at all six months ago.”

“We think the name’s an alias,” Steve said.

“Most likely, considering. We need a photo. Anyone got one?” Lawrence looked from Steve to Ellie.

“He paid two months rent with a check,” Steve said, “so we have a bank account.” He crossed his fingers. “Bank’s CCTV?”

“Worth a try.”

“I’ll get on it.” Steve scraped the remaining biscuits off the plate and dropped them into his coat pocket. “Quick lunch, maybe.” He dashed out.

Lawrence shook his head. “Lad’s too intense. What else do you have for me?”

“Pathologist report: One kill shot for each victim. No drugs in their systems. We’ve also identified them: Troy Higgins, Richard Jackson aka Dicky, and Arthur Richardson aka Artie, three mobsters Williamson identified. They’re gang leaders known to him for their drugs businesses, according to him. He thinks there might be a gang war going on, a turf battle.”

“Paul’s probably wrong,” Lawrence said, glad he’d avoided the confrontation with the pugnacious narcotics officer.

“Guv?”

“Think about it, Ellie. Those clowns were playing poker together, all like friendly business associates. They’ve divided up the area and staked out their own patches long ago if Williamson knows about them. If there’s a turf war, it’s because there’s a new yob around who took the opportunity to eliminate all three so he can move in. That’s my theory. Let’s ask Paul if there are any new drugs being sold.”

***

Paul Williamson and Matthew Lawrence had some history. Lawrence thought Williamson played a bit loose with the rules too often—scrotes beat up, evidence lost, and so forth, but nothing so egregious to make Lawrence go to the super. And he just didn’t like the little weasel.

(more…)

[Note from Steve: Wow! I just squeezed this in so that I didn’t have to add 2022 to the copyright statement! Happy New Year! Because this is yet another British-style mystery story, the metaphor of the title here refers to London’s Underground aka the Tube. Trains there, unlike NYC’s, actually have four rails with two live ones. The positive third rail is still outside the rails the car wheels ride on and has the higher voltage, which is twice the fourth with negative voltage, nestled between the two regular train ones. Now there’s a factoid that might stump any Jeopardy contestant!]

Living on the Third Rail

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Nine

“Guv, you look like road kill on the A1.”

Bobby squinted one eye at him. “I feel like road kill. Say, why do they call you Samaritan? I’ve heard that nickname bandied about here at times.”

“I don’t mind it. The Samarian area even now is dominated by Cohens. We’re all Samaritans.”

“I see. Good ones, I hope. I also hope you don’t mind my curiosity. It’s not often that I’m that curious about religious history this morning.”

Chaim smiled. “I’m getting some coffee from the canteen. I’ll get you some too. Where’s your mug?”

“On my desk. I’ll be there when you return. Join me, and we’ll bounce some ideas around about the case.”

Liz soon joined them with her tea and some biscuits. The two caught her up in the discussion.

“I’d say we’re doing all we can to find Jaeger and the child. We don’t know where to further canvass. The alleyway and tip isn’t where the four victims were killed. Jaeger could be anywhere in London.”

“If he’s here at all,” Chaim said.

“Where would you go?” Bobby said.

Chaim thought a moment. “Somewhere on the North Sea coast where I could take a ferry to the continent, or to anywhere in Scandinavia. Or Ireland, same for the west coast. Anywhere but here.”

“Without the jewels?”

“He exposes himself if he tries to recover the jewels,” Liz said.

“He might decide that he can always make another jewelry heist in Europe, but he can’t do that from the king’s boarding house.” Chaim led them in a sipping ritual. “I guess it depends on how greedy he is.”

“He should pay for his crimes,” Bobby said. “Here in the UK, where he committed the most serious ones, four murders.”

“Agreed,” Chaim said, “but maybe we should announce we have the jewels just to get rid of him. He wouldn’t have any reason to stay here if we did that.”

“True,” Liz said. “But I agree with Bobby. That bastard has to pay.”

Soon the whole team was in and they were hard at it again.

***

After many hours of frustration and many calls Bobby and Liz had made to other stations around the city, his CCTV team came up with the first sighting of Fritz Jaeger. They’d spotted him near the Bridge entering the Underground. They could switch to cameras inside the station.

“Where does that train go?” Bobby said as they watched him get on carrying the baby. “Anyone know?”

“It heads toward Southwark. Lots of stops along the way, of course.”

“Let’s try to keep him in sight. Should be easy with the baby.”

Southwark was the second most dangerous borough in London. They had eyes on the last few stations on the line. They saw Jaeger exit at one near the Guy’s and St Thomas Hospital Urgent Care Center.

“Maybe the child’s sick?” Liz said.

“We have him!” Bobby said. “Liz, have Hardcastle send a SCO19 unit. The bastard might be armed. Let’s go, Chaim. You’re driving. The rest of you, keep watch on the area and let me know if Jaeger does a runner.”

Normally it would be a forty minute drive even with the light afternoon traffic. Chaim made it in twenty-five with lights flashing and siren wailing forcing people out of the way. Bobby had to hold on as his DS wove in and around buses letting off passengers and lorries making deliveries. He thought Chaim might have taken a few corners on two wheels.

They parked, left the lights flashing, and entered emergency. There was no sign of Jaeger.

Bobby flashed his warrant card to the receptionist. “I’m looking for a man with a sick baby.”

“Name?” said the nurse.

“He’s probably not using his real name. He kidnapped the child.”

She blanched. “I-I think a man came in with a baby about thirty minutes ago. He must be in an exam room by now.”

“Which room?”

“I don’t know. One of the nurses took them to it. It’d be down the hall here.”

“You take the left side and I’ll take the right,” Bobby told Chaim. He turned to the reception nurse. “Call security and tell them to close all exits.”

“We don’t have enough security personnel to do that! Not all at once.”

“Can’t be done from your security office?” She shook her head. A security lapse. “Just do the best you can.”

They had each checked five exam rooms causing a few screams and curses when Chaim pointed along the corridor. Bobby looked and saw a man with a baby disappear out a fire exit, which set klaxons blaring.

“After him!” Bobby yelled over the din.

Chapter Ten

As they passed their patrol car, the SCO19 van pulled up. “Tell them to follow me,” Bobby said to Chaim. He kept running after the fleeing jewel thief, following him right back to the tube station.

His bum leg hindered him a bit, but his legs were longer than Jaeger’s. The thief didn’t take the escalator; he took the stairs instead, two at a time. Bobby’s leg was throbbing by that time, so Jaeger was halfway down the platform when Bobby arrived there.

(more…)

[Note from Steve: Because this is yet another British-style mystery story, the metaphor of the title here refers to London’s Underground aka the Tube. Trains there, unlike NYC’s, actually have four rails with two live ones. The positive third rail is still outside the rails the car wheels ride on and has the higher voltage, which is twice the fourth with negative voltage, nestled between the two regular train ones. Now there’s a factoid that might stump any Jeopardy contestant!]

Living on the Third Rail

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Six

Before Bobby left with Wolfgang for the castle the next morning, he had another quick breakfast with Elaine.

“You look knackered, Inspector.”

“I guess I wasn’t quite ready to have an important case right at the start of my DI work. Got to get into it some time, I suppose, but it’s been exhausting, and we’re just in early days. How’s it going with you?”

Bobby didn’t want to give her any of the gory details. He eyed her and managed a smile, feeding off her concern. It was nice to have someone worried about him. This woman is special, but is she nursing me or interested in something more?

He knew veterans often had relationship issues. Especially in his current line of work, he had to fight depression. A plod often sees the worst of humanity. And seeing Maria’s body on that exam table was more than depressing. Wolfgang was right. No one deserved to have their life ended that way, especially a vibrant, young woman. And I was just at the prelim! He thought about sending someone else for the full autopsy.

“You look fresh, not knackered. In fact, you look good, Elaine.” Should I say that to a woman I hardly know? Due to Elaine’s ER schedule, there was no way to call the previous dinner a serious date. “But I bet the ER is stressful.”

“Sometimes it’s just routine, which I’m used to handling. It’s when we receive cases all at once time that it becomes hectic. That usually involves motorway accidents with multiple collisions, but we had a mass shooting once. And then there was Covid, of course.”

They talked about the pandemic a bit, and then he told her about their upcoming trip to a castle. He couldn’t give her many details, and he was surprised by her comments.

“I always wanted to live in a castle when I was a little girl. To be married to a prince like Diana was.”

“That didn’t turn out so well for her, although he still got to be king.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I have no use for the whole lot. They’re leeches who cut ribbons and such to give people their fixes for their addictions to pomp and circumstance, and they call that work.”

Those are strong words, Bobby thought, but she had said them with a smile. Of course, they echoed his sentiments.

“I never think about royalty much,” he said to continue with a more neutral and less personal discussion. “They’re like Big Ben or Trafalgar Square, you know: Just sad monuments to the golden age of the once mighty British Empire. I think most people just take them for granted like London’s air pollution. I certainly do.”

“In a sense, we both work for them.”

He laughed. “I doubt our yearly salaries even come close to what they spend in a month. And I’d wager the government spent more keeping our troops in Afghanistan than what all the royals combined spend.”

“Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like a wee raise now and then,” she said with a laugh.

“No I suspect we’re like civil servants most everywhere, lost in the lower middle class. I’m just happy to have a job right now, along with that bit of promotion that came with it.”

“So tell me about the German bloke.”

“He’s from Interpol and will be a consultant for the case for reasons I don’t want to get into. He’s headquartered in Lyon, though, so I suspect he speaks French as well as German and English.”

“Ooh-la-la,” she said. “Prussian or Bavarian?”

Bobby shrugged. How do you tell? “He’s from Munich.”

“Most likely Bavarian then. That would make him more interesting. I’ve been looking for someone to teach me the polka.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I went out and celebrated my last night at Ramstein airbase trying to dance polkas and Viennese waltzes while drunk. I gave it my all, but I think I need many more lessons. A rather heavyset fraulein flung me around the dance floor. Hardly dancing, I dare say.”

She thought a moment. “Maybe we can take lessons together.”

“I’d like that, but fair warning to your toes if I step on them.”

“I want to learn some Latin dances too.”

“Are you planning a new career?”

“Heavens no! There’s just a certain Met inspector I’d like to dance with.”

He smiled. “Now I’m jealous. Who is he?”

“You, idiot! Who knows? You might also be my Prince Charming. Just call me Cinders.”

He thought she might be mixing up her fairy tales, but he liked her comments.

***

“I heard you were at Ramstein,” Wolfgang said as they walked towards the castle’s entrance.

“I didn’t get to see much of the local color,” Bobby said, showing his prosthetic.

“I noticed that. Oh well, you can always take a holiday in Germany. Munich’s the best place to go, unless you want to float down the Danube and visit Austria as well.”

“And I heard you’re from there.” Bobby smiled at Wolfgang. “Bundespolizei.”

“Guilty as charged. And I like to promote my home town.”

“To the chore at hand. How did these people get this castle again? They’re not British toffs.”

“They bought it, I suppose. We don’t have that information. Aren’t your aristocrats getting so poor with the tax hikes that they’re selling off everything?”

“Some have been doing that all along, long before Brexit and Covid. It takes quite a dosh to maintain a place like this.” Bobby studied the front door. “I think we have to pull this ring. Careful. Big Ben-like chimes might sound.”

Bobby was right. The door chimes sounded from deep within the castle; for the sound to reach them through the solid wooden door, they had to be loud. He waited a bit and then pulled the chain again. He was about to pull it a third time when a tall old man in a butler uniform appeared.

“DI Robert Sherman of Scotland Yard and Interpol agent Wolfgang Lange.” They showed him their credentials. “We have an appointment with Mr. and Mrs. Girardi.”

“Of course. Follow me, gentlemen.”

They were led down a long hall and then into a sitting room that looked like something from Buckingham Palace.

“You may take seats over by the fireplace. Shall I bring you tea service?”

“That would be splendid,” Wolfgang said with a smile.

The tea service arrived before Mr. and Mrs. Girardi: Four delicate China cups; a large matching teapot, with its sugar bowl and milk pitcher; and a plate of cakes.

“Don’t get used to it,” Bobby told Wolfgang in a whisper.

“They’re not English toffs, but they live like ones,” Wolfgang said.

Bobby thought it was prudent to wait for their hosts, who soon appeared. After introductions and taking seats, the aunt became mother. She seemed to glide upon a magic cloud of perfume as she performed the ritual, giving everyone tea and then offering the cakes. With the tea, she pointed to the sugar cubes and milk; when it was his turn, Bobby declined the milk and signaled for one cube. She winked at him and smiled.

Is she flirting, implying the one cube was perfect because I’m already so sweet? Or is it all just my imagination? Maybe the years spent in Afghanistan with mostly sweaty, unwashed men had affected how he related to women and didn’t permit a close but socially acceptable connection. He thought of Elaine.

But Bobby connected with the pair of Swiss ex-pats. They seemed like nice people, but a police detective had to be more objective. Niceness could always just be a charade. Let’s see if it is.

Mr. Girardi, who looked like one of the gnome-bankers from the Harry Potter movies, albeit more pleasant, spoke in his soft, gravelly voice.

“And what brings you to Pembroke Castle, gentlemen? Our humble abode isn’t the most famous one, of course, but we welcome you all the same.”

Mrs. Girardi winked at them and smiled again. She was much younger than her husband but deferred to him. She knows her place, Bobby thought.

“An urgent family matter, perhaps. Have you spoken to your niece Maria recently?”

“Is she the missing person your sergeant mentioned when she rang?” Bobby nodded. “She’s hardly missing then. She’s still living in Italy, I presume. Milan, to be precise.”

Bobby decided to shake up the bloke a bit. Sometimes shock value was warranted. “I regret that I must correct that presumption. We found Maria Girardi’s body in a London alleyway.”

“Oh my Lord!” Mrs. Girardi covered her mouth after uttering her first words.

“That is terrible news,” said Mr. Girardi. He looked genuinely sad. “Have you informed her parents?”

“No. We understand Maria and they were estranged.” Wolfgang was studying the pair’s reactions as much as Bobby. Did he too doubt their concern was authentic?

Mr. Girardi’s answer neither confirmed nor denied that. Instead he said, “Maria was always a bit headstrong. She is—was an independent young lady, to say the least.”

“Did you know Interpol has been looking for her as one of five suspects who stole jewels in Italy?” Bobby said. “Milan, to be precise.”

The husband looked at his wife and then back at Wolfgang. “Lord no! When she was here, she mentioned nothing about that.”

“So…” Bobby said, “she was here.”

The old Swiss-Italian realized his mistake. “We only try to protect her, Inspector. She wouldn’t give us any details, but she was frightened and wanted to hide here for a while. I thought it had something to do with my brother.”

(more…)

[Note from Steve: Because this is yet another British-style mystery story, the metaphor of the title here refers to London’s Underground aka the Tube. Trains there, unlike NYC’s, actually have four rails with two live ones. The positive third rail is still outside the rails the car wheels ride on and has the higher voltage, which is twice the fourth with negative voltage, nestled between the two regular train ones. Now there’s a factoid that might stump any Jeopardy contestant!]

Living on the Third Rail

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Three

Bobby found Elaine’s little motorcar comfortable once he was inside, but getting into the old Morris was difficult, for both his size and bum leg that was always stiff that late in the day.

“I’ll try to remember to bring some axle grease for you next time,” she said with a smile as he made himself more comfortable.

“I’m good. I’ve been in far tighter places before—tanks, overcrowded Humvees and Jeeps, sitting right-side up or upside down, or in a roll downhill. This is heaven in comparison. Nice to have a pretty chauffeur too and not a sweaty colleague driving.”

She was silent until she had to stop for a light. She turned to him, a worried look on her face. “Let’s not ruin dinner by talking about any of that. Please. I hate war, even though I love soldiers. They go through hell. I know that, but I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”

“Right. But you won’t want to hear about some cases I had with the Met either. Soldiering and policing—that’s me most of my adult life. So we have to talk about you. No rings, so you’re not engaged or married. Any boyfriends?”

“Not currently. And not for a while, in fact. No time for a serious relationship, to put a fine point on it. I’m an ER nurse, remember?” He nodded. “It’s better now. Definitely less hectic than what we experienced during the pandemic. If I’d had that PM as a patient, I might have forgotten the Hippocratic oath.”

“Family?”

“Mum’s in a Bristol nursing home with dementia. Whole place got the virus. She was one of the few who survived. Pops is gone five years now. Not unusual for people our age. Your family?”

“I’m the youngest of three siblings, the baby that arrived by accident. Our parents passed on, seems like years ago. The oldest sibling, my sister, is a barrister. My older brother’s a teacher. They’re both a lot older than I am. We exchange holiday cards, and I received something like a ‘Get well soon’ from my sis when I was in that German hospital recovering. I’m basically on my own.”

“So…are we both stupid to lose ourselves in our work?”

“I suppose. Sad, huh? Aren’t we the glum chums?”

“Here we are. A pint or two will cheer us.”

“And the food?”

“It’s usually great, and there’s lots of it. But if it isn’t tonight, we’ll just have to toss down a few more pints. We can always call a taxi. I’ve left my motor here overnight in the car-park before. Nobody would bother stealing this old thing. Fair warning: I need an early evening. Graveyard shift coming up, so my limit is two. With more and the food, I’d have trouble staying awake.”

He could tell by the way she gripped the wheel and blathered on a bit that she was nervous. His sleuthing skills weren’t quite up to determining why. And he couldn’t remember the last time he’d had dinner with a woman.

***

Elaine dropped him at his boarding house not long after dinner. Mrs. Lawton, the owner, was still awake reading one of her romance novels.

“Saw a lovely young lass drop you off, Mr. Bobby,” she said, sticking her head out the entrance to her sitting room. She winked at him. “You work fast. Who is she?”

“Just a new friend I met. Sorry I’m late.”

The old woman looked back inside, probably at the huge grandfather clock in the back corner of the room. “Not very. Tomorrow I’ll try to remember to give you a key so you can come and go as you please. I never want to stand in the way of young love.”

“Again, she’s just a friend. Good night, Mrs. Lawton. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

“You missed it today.”

“I had a lot to do.”

“No problem. I’ll credit that. I start serving at seven. Last service by nine. Have a good evening.”

Bobby moved up the stairs with a smile on his face. He’d been lucky to find the place. Maybe Mrs. Lawton would mother him too much, but he’d be in no hurry to change lodging until after he was sorted in his new tasks at work. One thing at a time, Bobby, one thing at a time.

But should he follow up with Elaine? She’d seemed to imply she was very busy with no time for relationships. He’d be busy too. If anything happened, it would have to occur with both of them skirting around their stressful work. But other people did that, didn’t they? Time would tell.

He did a bit of a lie-in the next morning, had a leisurely breakfast served by Mrs. Lawton and her son, David, a friendly fellow who reminded Bobby of Aaron Brody, another simple soul. The world needs more like them.

He went to his appointment with Dr. Patel.

The office was located more toward the center of London in a modern skyscraper. Bobby found the suite number in the lobby, 8H. He was impressed when he entered the office. Definitely not NHS! Bobby couldn’t figure out how the Met could afford the doctor’s services. Maybe this is an exceptional exam? How much would the medic charge? Bobby could imagine several monthly wages.

***

“Mr. Sherman. This way please.” An older nurse led him past the receptionist’s desk into a corridor and then on to an exam room. “Please detach your prosthetic. The doctor will be with you in a moment.”

When the doctor entered, he reminded Bobby of some characters in Willy Wonka & the Candy Factory, an Oompa-Loompa-like fellow with a wide grin and sparkling, brown eyes, but he couldn’t remember which version of the movie he was remembering. Bobby regretted making the racial stereotype, especially when the small man turned out to be a serious yet amiable professional.

He examined the prosthetic. “As a child, I read a novel once where the main character had several of these, even some specialty ones with tools. Ever read The Moon is a Harsh Mistress? It’s a sci-fi story by Robert Heinlein. I found the idea of functional prosthetics fascinating, so here I am, ye olde prosthetics expert. I get paid for examining all of you plods, though, prosthetics or not. Just strip to your briefs. I’ll take your prosthetic for a moment to examine it. Be right back.”

When he returned, Patel waved the artificial hand and said, “They did a fine job. Let me check the stump first.” Bobby felt a bit strange as the doctor examined the stump with its multiple contacts. “Yes, I see how they did it. That must have taken some time, but you should have nearly full functionality. Let’s see the leg. Can you stand alone on it?” For another ten minutes, Patel poked and prodded. “You’ll have a great left hook.” He laughed.

“Someone else said that.”

“I’ll write on the form that you’re fit enough to go out and about and nick all the bad people. I’d hate to be a criminal and get in a fight with you. You can dress and go back to the waiting room. The nurse will bring your forms out. Good luck back in the Met, Inspector Sherman.”

“Not quite yet, but by the end of the day, I suppose.”

Chapter Four

“Welcome back to civilization, Guv,” DS Cohen said upon entering Bobby’s new office, his hand extended in greetings. “You might not remember me. I was only a detective constable when you were here as a DS.”

“Take a chair.” When he was seated, Bobby smiled at him. “I do remember you. I just want to meet the whole team one on one, like I said at our team meeting. By the way, first-name basis. I’m Bobby. You’re Chaim?” He nodded. “How’s the nipper?”

He laughed. “Two now, Guv—um, Bobby. A boy and girl. Everyone’s fine, thank you.”

“Your wife’s a pathologist associated with the next station over, right?”

“She works with them usually, correct. I sometimes see her in her official capacity when things get hectic here and old Doc Jepson gets overwhelmed. The Met’s just one big happy family.”

“Except when it isn’t,” Bobby said with a smile. “I have yet to see you in action as a DS.” Chaim frowned. “Don’t worry. We’ll work fine together. I know a lot more about being a DS than being a DI, though, so have patience with me.”

“You worked under DCI Hardcastle. We all respect him, and he’s a great role model.”

“I hope to be the same, and I’ll be as demanding, within reason…and I will not be overbearing. Please let me know about any problems here at work. I’m a good listener. Any questions?”

“Not now. I’ll pipe up when I have them.”

“Good. Could you send in DS Wilson?”

***

By one p.m., Bobby had finished interviewing his new team: two sergeants and four constables making up a team of seven, counting himself. That makeup could change depending on a particular case’s requirements. And, on occasion, some DIs ran two teams or more, taking almost the role of a DCI. For now, Hardcastle was breaking him in with just the one team.

Except for DS Cohen, who had been promoted to Bobby’s old position from another station’s team, the team was Hardcastle’s old one, including himself, the DI now responsible for all of them. He thought it was an awesome responsibility, but a challenge that he gladly accepted.

(more…)

[Note from Steve: Because this is yet another British-style mystery story, the metaphor of the title here refers to London’s Underground aka the Tube. Trains there, unlike NYC’s, actually have four rails with two live ones. The positive third rail is still outside the rails the car wheels ride on and has the higher voltage, which is twice the fourth with negative voltage, nestled between the two regular train ones. Now there’s a factoid that might stump any Jeopardy contestant!]

Living on the Third Rail

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Prologue

Lieutenant Robert Sherman swung into the Humvee with his right arm. He cradled his rifle on his lap and nodded to the driver, an American he only knew as John.

“Drop us outside the village, mate.”

“Yes, sir. Opposite side from where our guys are, right?”

Bobby couldn’t place the accent. US soldiers, their comrades in arms in the hellhole known as Afghanistan, spoke many kinds of English, none of them the Queen’s. He thought John’s was southern US, but no matter. John’s blood was as red as his, and they could both die that day.

About two miles from the village where they hoped to trap some murdering Talibans in a pincer movement to free the village, Bobby spotted a shadowy figure ahead who disappeared behind a berm. John saw him too and slowed.

“Let’s stop. Hicks, jump out and see what that bloke was about. Find his arse if you can.”

Everyone in the vehicle was thinking the same as Bobby and John: IED or land mine. Either one might be nasty.

Hicks jumped out the rear of the vehicle and ran forward. He examined the road and then behind the berm, shaking his head.

“Road only shows the tracks of the American lads,” he said upon his return. “They must already be in place. No sign of that local bloke.”

“Okay. Let’s go, John.”

The Humvee lurched forward as John went through the gears. Two hundred yards farther on they hit the IED.

The last thing Bobby remembered before regaining consciousness in a field hospital was the heavy vehicle flying into the air from the force of the blast. He discovered he was without his left hand, although it seemed to still be there, and his left leg hurt like hell.

Chapter One

Months later…

Bobby saw the drunk hassling the pretty nurse and moved in, restraining him. “Call the police,” he told her.

The coppers took over when they arrived, one constable taking away the handcuffed drunk while the other went somewhere else with the nurse to take her statement. She managed to send a silent thank you his way as they left. He returned to his seat in the waiting room.

He couldn’t help comparing the NHS ER to field hospitals in Afghanistan, not all that different than the tents for Covid victims he’d seen on the news over there. His second tour had ended with his injuries, but he had avoided the fiasco that American president had created after the Taliban’s blitzkrieg-style victory and chaotic evacuation that followed. What a mess!

Afghanistan hadn’t just involved American troops. It had been a cooperative NATO effort, with he and his British colleagues trying to sustain that nation-building, a disaster in the making from day one. The USSR’s Vietnam had become another American Vietnam, and they had dragged other nations’ combatants, consultants, and aid personnel down with them.

He was lucky in a sense. The wound in his leg had healed, only leaving a wee limp. The prosthetic left-hand was stronger than his right, although he’d never be able to tie a fly again. He’d have to buy ready-made ones if he wanted to go fishing in the Lake District. Or he’d use live bait that didn’t wriggle too much.

“Mr. Sherman? You’re up.” Bobby followed the older nurse into a small exam room. “What can we do for you today?”

“I’m just back from Germany two days and my stump’s itching like hell.” He raised his arm and wiggled the prosthetic’s fingers at her. “They said it might with the more humid climate here.”

“Who’s they?”

“The doctors at Ramstein airbase. I was there as a guest in their fancy hospital for a while.”

“I see. War wound then. I’ll take your vitals and then Dr. Murphy will be with you.”

***

The constable who had taken the first nurse’s statement caught Bobby on the way out.

“I probably should get your statement too, sir. I hate to make you go back to an NHS waiting room to do that. If it’s convenient for you, could you come to the station? We should take our prisoner in and get him sorted.”

“I was going there anyway, DC Brody. I have an appointment with DCI Jack Hardcastle there at ten.”

“Oh? Perfect. Either the other constable or I will take your statement if you come in a bit earlier. See you then?”

“I’ll be there. Now here’s me looking for a late breakfast at Dolly’s.”

“They call it brunch now. Some idea to attract toffs, I suspect, trying to make the old place a bit more posh. Still the same menu, though.”

Bobby entered the cafe with his bag of medicines, feeling a bit better about his stump’s condition. He’d been worried that the problem was some kind of allergic reaction to the prosthetic material, but it had been what the doctor in Germany had warned him might happen: a mold just getting started in the heat and humidity of an English summer. He was surprised to see the nurse he’d saved from the drunk gesturing towards her table.

“I didn’t get a chance to thank my hero,” she said with a smile. “My name’s Elaine Barton, but you already knew that.” She offered a hand, and he shook it, all the while enjoying her welcoming smile. “In the ER, we’re trained to sort such confrontations, but that drunken prat was damn strong. Sit down. I at least owe you a cuppa or some coffee. Theirs are both good here.” He sat, picked up a menu, but gave her his full attention. “Where’d you learn to handle yourself that way?”

“Bobby, Bobby Sherman.” It came out sounding to him like Bond, James Bond. Embarrassing. He skirted her question. “I know Dolly’s from way back. I was hoping they hadn’t changed. Actually, I’m having a full breakfast. I’ve only been back a few days, and I’ve skipped a few breakfasts at the boarding house, like today’s, and  have done take-aways for other meals. I think coffee comes with breakfast, unless that’s changed.”

“That policy still applies. I’ll have to reward you in some other way. I saw that Brody hit you up for a statement. Aaron’s a nice fellow even if he isn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“I know that. He didn’t recognize me.”

“You mean from before?”

(more…)

[Note from Steve: Consider this story an early holiday gift for you, your children, and grandchildren. A. B. Carolan revisits that wonderful mutant cat Mr. Paws in this story. Some readers met him in The Secret Lab. The Fearsome Four, a group of four teens in the future, who became sleuths to discover how he’d arrived on the International Space Station, end up uncovering a conspiracy instead. I told A. B. about a neighbor’s cat that early this fall started sunning himself and taking catnaps on our backyard picnic table. That might have inspired my Irish collaborator to write this tale (you don’t need to read the novel to enjoy it, although it might motivate you to do so). I told A. B. this tale reminds me a bit of tales written by H. Rider Haggard, who, of course, was English, not Irish.

Due to supply chain issues–out time will be in short supply as A. B. and I dedicate more of it to my writing—I will reduce the number of articles posted to this blog to two in the future. Wednesdays will feature an article about reading, writing, or publishing, and Fridays will be dedicated to free short fiction, continuing the “Friday Fiction” series. Thank you for your understanding.]

Space-Cat

Copyright 2021, A. B. Carolan

It wasn’t easy to find my favorite Human, Shashibala Garcia. Space is big. Maybe too big for a cat? Paws. Mr. Paws. A space-cat who was born on the International Space Station. I’m a unique and dashing feline who might know more mathematics than you probably ever will. Yet too many Humans still just treat me like other cats.

I’d had a few miscues looking for her, that favorite Human of mine. I mistakenly thought I’d stowed away on a big rig heading for the outer planets but ended up on Mars. My visit to that red planet began badly but turned out okay.

Some mice had stowed away earlier on some other big rig and gotten loose in the Mars colony. They’d imported a few cats to control the mouse population, so I ended up with a harem for a while. I guess you could say I did my duty by increasing the cat population so the mouse problem was controlled. None of my kittens could create new mathematical theorems, though.

I soon became bored with Mars. Love’em and leave’em, I say. I reset my sights on Dione, one of Saturn’s moons, where I’d set out originally to find Shashi. I knew she’d be there; we’d corresponded frequently over the years.

Shashi and I had a special relationship that had developed on the ISS when she was just a young kitten. Of course, she’s my favorite Human, so I hoped she’d be as happy to see me as I would be to see her.

She’d married Brian Kelso, another member of her ISS gang, the Fearsome Four, and they headed off to work in Rafael Franchetti’s research team on Dione. Brian and Rafael were okay, but Shashi was special. Together we’d shut down a conspiracy on the space station. That conspiracy had created me, so I’ll always have mixed emotions about ending it.

All cargo bound for Saturn is protected from the space vacuum; there’s so much on the typical big rig that it’s not cost effective to separate things. (I know economics as well as math. You can’t make sense of the former without models from the latter.) I’d still needed to be choosy about where I hid on the way to Mars—air wasn’t necessarily included in a shipping container, but shielding against radiation always was—and that was true for my trip to Dione. Fortunately I had no problem reading the cargo manifests and chose wisely.

I hid in a special cargo container that was filled with living plants; it was temperature and humidity controlled and had little hoses that dripped water on the plants’ roots, all that creating a little jungle for this fearsome tiger. I didn’t know if the plants were for research, future food, or decoration—hard to tell what motivates crazy Humans—but on that long journey I could pretend I was in a real jungle, a Sumatran tiger protecting my territory. Of course, I had to lie on my back from time to time and steal some water from the plants. While there was no catnip, there was some red fruit I could split open and eat. Gave me the runs, but there was enough soil to serve as my bathroom.

Needless to say, I was happy to reach Dione. I’d lost a pound or two—at my young age of twenty-eight (thanks to Shashi’s mother’s telomere extension treatments), losing a bit of extra weight wasn’t such a bad thing—and pretending to be a Sumatran tiger only gets you so far in eliminating the boredom. I’d countered the latter a bit by creating some new number theory theorems. All fun for a while, but I missed Humans in general and Shashi in particular.

So…I was almost purring from happiness when I jumped out of that container. That surprised two Humans who pursued me, screaming “Cat!” I avoided them easily enough and was soon scampering through air and heating ducts in the Dione research station. It reminded me of ISS, only bigger, and that extra space provided a lot more places to hide while I searched for Shashi.

***

I found her in a lab. No surprise there. She was a scientist, after all. She was visualizing something with a graphics terminal. I latter learned that she and Brian worked on modeling the gas giant’s atmosphere. Probably a messy business, I suppose. They’d learned why the upper atmosphere was so hot at least a century ago: the electrical currents in the auroras were much more powerful than Earth’s. Because the faraway sun hardly warmed the planet, that had been a mystery for a while. Now they were modeling how the currents actually accomplished that, so I supposed the atmosphere was a plasma-gas mix that took some scientific finesse to model.

I started purring from the ventilation duct just above her desk. She looked up, maybe wondering if she were dreaming, because that had been the way we’d met on ISS. She jumped on top of the desk, an easy thing to do in Dione’s low gravity, and stared into the duct at me.

“Well, well, a cat. You look just like Mr. Paws.”

I couldn’t respond. I’d lost my wi-fi implant on the way to Mars, and the research station’s AI wouldn’t have the code that allowed me to communicate with Humans anyway. But she’d see the port when she took me down, so I purred more loudly.

After I was comfortable on her lap, she called Brian via her own wi-fi implant. Although there was no need, she vocalized, not subvocalized, the call.

“We have a visitor. Guess who it is.”

“No idea. Someone hitched a ride on that big rig that just sent a shuttle down, interrupting my data collection?”

“Maybe. He got here some way.”

“So who is it?”

“Mr. Paws.”

That must have shocked Shashi’s mate because there was a period of silence.

“How do you know?”

“What other cat has a wi-fi port?”

He laughed. “Where is he now?”

“On my lap.”

“Um. I’ll be right there. I can’t get back online until after that shuttle goes up for another load.”

I had no idea where Brian had to come from, but he showed up twenty minutes later, breathless. He picked me up and cradled me in his arms.

“Are you really Mr. Paws?”

I purred a “yes,” but he didn’t understand cat language.

“My mother can transmit the code so our AI can link with him,” Shashi said. “She’ll be as surprised as we are.”

“In the meantime, we need to get him some food. He looks a bit malnourished.”

Now we’re talking! I was liking this new Brian. He was a lot more serious, mature, and caring. More like Shashi, in fact. I decided she’d been good for him.

***

After wi-fi communication was reestablished, we had some good times together, Shashi, Brian, and I. Rafael okayed my presence as long as I kept out of the way, but only three Humans knew I was there on Dione. I suspected those two on the loading docks hadn’t wanted to admit that I’d escaped their clutches.

It wasn’t all fun…or a different kind of fun. I contributed to the trio’s research effort. With my AI connection, I could contribute as well as any Human when it came to data analysis—all based on cat-language commands, of course.

If Rafael hadn’t known I was there, he would have suspected something was amiss. We got our work done thirty to forty percent faster than Shashi and Brian had alone. That gave us some extra time for us to get caught up and for me to explore the Dione station. On one of those trips, I saw something that puzzled me.

“What’s Project Home Run?” I said to them after my jaunt and relaxing after dinner.

Shashi looked at Brian; he shook his head. “We don’t know,” she said.

I knew enough about Earth to figure out the usual meaning of “home run,” a term used in an Earth game that could only be watched and not played out in space. I also knew enough that Human names for projects often obscured what they were about instead of explained.

“Where’d you hear about it, Mr. Paws?” Brian said.

“Not heard but seen,” I said. “The director has a special terminal to communicate with Earth. He was reviewing something sent to him, but he’d only received the title page of the document.”

“Could you see where it was from?” Shashi said.

“GenCorp. Remember them?”

“Vaguely,” Shashi said. “I think my mother’s research funds come from a GenCorp subsidiary.”

“So do some research funds for this station,” Brian said. “Maybe that’s why the director received the message. Might not mean anything.”

“You know the saying,” I said.

“About curious cats?” Shashi said. “Trying to find out what Project Home Run might get you killed, Mr. Paws. The director might not like the idea that a cat’s here either.”

“No mice around, I take it?” I’d already told them about my Martian experiences, not that they could compare with Edgar Rice Burrough’s adventures featuring Jedi warriors, helped by John Carter. “I am helping to get the work done, aren’t I?”

“That might not set well with the director either,” Brian said. “Fortunately, Rafael insulates us from him a lot.”

“So…maybe Rafael could find out about Project Home Run?”

“Um. I suppose he might agree to do that, just to satisfy your curiosity.”

***

Rafael and the director had agreed to disagree on many things, but the latter knew he wouldn’t last long if he got in the way of research. Scientists wouldn’t tolerate that for long, even if their funding was channeled through the director. UNSA would step in and make adjustments if there were any hedges on the agreement between Earth’s mega-corporations and UNSA about future space exploration and research.

(more…)

[Note from Steve: Let’s hope this “Black Friday” doesn’t involve illegal gun sales–we have enough guns in the US. This story, which ends today, is about them, though–they plague the British too! My British-style mysteries to date probably are more influenced by Dame Agatha and other authors’ creations rather than the hard-boiled American school, probably the major influence for my “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco” series (the Tums-chewing Castilblanco is as hard-boiled as lollipop-sucking Kojak, to be honest). After a bit of reflection about that, I decided to write a story about a hard-boiled British DI. Okay, he has Irish blood, so maybe the stereotype of Irish NYC cop also holds true with him? You decide.]

Arms Control

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Seven

At the twenty-second hour, the team came together with Hal and Jay present. They’d discovered that Art and Doug shared a flat, and the two were driving other residents in the building and neighbors in the area crazy with their visitors’ going and coming, mostly during late evenings and early mornings. The team also had some grainy CCTV records from a nearby pharmacy that backed up the residents and neighbors’ stories. Unfortunately the video quality was too poor to run facial recognition software.

“We’ll have to go in with this,” Alan said. “Worst case, we let them go and put surveillance on the flat, although they’ll probably just entertain their guests somewhere else.”

“An old lady in the same building,” Hiram said, “gave our artist enough to make a good drawing, right down to a facial scar, mustache, and goatee. Other residents and neighbors saw the drawing and said that person was one of the frequent visitors.”

“Still not enough for facial recognition?” said Jay.

“Iffy. In any case, there was no match in HOLMES. That scrote might be a foreigner, or just someone clever enough to be without form. Hal shipped it off to Interpol, MI5, and NCA.”

“That will take a while,” Hal said. “We won’t have anything in time for the second interrogation.”

“I suggest we threaten them a bit,” Alan said. “Say we’ve checked and the Home Office wants MI5 to take over their case, and they’d be much better off with us?”

Hal smiled. “That might put a little more pressure on them, assuming they’re intelligent enough to know what MI5 is.”

“And they might call your bluff,” Jay said, “or their lawyer will.”

***

Judy and Alan filed into the interrogation room while Jay and Hal entered the room behind the one-way window once again.

“You’ve had more than enough time to think about your plight,” Judy began. “And we’ve had enough time to make things worse for you.”

“What do you mean?” said the barrister.

“MI5 would like to question your two clients now,” Judy said. “They’re interested in arms trafficking because of the terrorist angle. They suspect your clients are involved in arming terrorists. We’d love to see them pin that on your clients. They’d be in the nick for a lot longer.”

“They can’t do that!” Art Simons said. “Buying a few things doesn’t make us terrorists. We’re as patriotic as the next bloke.”

“So…” Alan said with a smile. “Who did you buy the vests and weapons from? J&M or someone else?”

Art glanced at Doug, who nodded. “Okay. J&M outfitted us.”

“And you’ve continued to deal with them, considering all the visitors at your flat. What are you planning? Or are you now helping them distribute?”

“We just socialize a lot,” Art said, and Doug nodded.

Alan laughed. “With some rather shadowy characters.” That wasn’t a lie. The witnesses and video evidence hadn’t been good enough to identify anyone, but they were grainy and shadowy on the video. The best they had was a drawing! “You can either give us their names, or give them to MI5. I’d think you’d prefer the first option. MI5 doesn’t have to allow any legal representation, so they can do what they want.” That was only true for people accused of treason, and only in the initial stages, but the scrotes wouldn’t know that. Would the lawyer?

“I need a break to confer with my clients,” he said.

Time for tea and cakes, thought Alan, but not for that trio.

“Any change of opinions?” Judy said twenty minutes later after returning from that break.

“As far as we know, there’s only one bloke who’s with J&M,” Art said.

“The one with the facial scar, mustache, and goatee?” said Judy, taking an educated guess. At least he looked different from the others and foreign, which didn’t mean much in England or the UK as a whole anymore. Now both Art and Doug nodded. “What’s his name, and what were you doing for him?”

“Helping him outfit customers,” Art said. “He threatened to turn us in to NCA or MI5 if we didn’t cooperate. We didn’t want to go back to prison, so we helped out. Not a bad deal. Paid better than armed robbery, to tell the truth.”

As if these two know what truth is, Alan thought. “His name?” he said.

“Ivan Stoyanov. We think he might be Bulgarian.” Art looked from Judy to Alan and back. “We helped you out. What’s going to happen to us?”

“The Crown Court will take that all into consideration. It can’t hurt your case. It’s not like you were on the straight and narrow, but yes, you helped us.”

“And MI5?”

“We’ll keep you here for now.” Alan slid legal pads and biros to the two. “Your lawyer can help you edit your confessions. Seems like he’s not good for much else.”

The lawyer did nothing but glare at Alan.

Chapter Eight

The manhunt for Ivan Stoyanov had success two days later. They brought him in as a murder suspect for arranging the murder of Sam Duncan. A uniformed constable’d spotted him buying liquor in a small shopping center not far from Art and Doug’s place. Ivan had thrown a bottle at the constable who had the good sense to step aside. That’d been enough to motivate the young constable to pursue Ivan. Knowing the neighborhood well, the copper took a shortcut. The Bulgarian ran right into the constable’s outstretched arms while looking in the expected direction of pursuit. The constable put him down and cuffed him. Alan chugged the constable a bit by commending him for a job well done.

Judy and Alan entered the interrogation room once again.

“I’m a legal resident of this shite country!” were the first words they heard. “I know my rights. I want to lodge a complaint about police brutality!”

Alan smiled at the bloke’s Crown-appointed lawyer. “Better get your client to settle down. He’s not helping his cause.”

“He says he’s not an arms trafficker,” the lawyer said, examining his nails as if he didn’t care.

“We have proof he is. As a legal resident of the UK, he’ll be the guest of the king in a maximum security prison for at least five years, maybe more.” Alan now focused on Ivan, who’d become very quiet upon hearing that. “That will occur unless you can provide us some useful information. Let’s talk about J&M, Ivan. We know you, Art, and Doug work for them…worked, in their case, and most likely past tense for you as well. We want details about their operation.”

Ivan sighed. “I’m just a go-between. Those two and others work for me. I don’t know much about the details. J&M’s organized like a spy network, each layer not knowing much about the one above but everything about the next one down.”

(more…)

[Note from Steve: My British-style mysteries to date probably are more influenced by Dame Agatha and other authors’ creations rather than the hard-boiled American school, probably the major influence for my “Detectives Chen and Castilblanco” series (the Tums-chewing Castilblanco is as hard-boiled as lollipop-sucking Kojak, to be honest). After a bit of reflection about that, I decided to write a story about a hard-boiled British DI. Okay, he has Irish blood, so maybe the stereotype of Irish NYC cop also holds true with him? You decide.]

Arms Control

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Four

“I almost couldn’t find this place,” Hal Leonard told Alan as he slid into the pub’s booth to sit opposite the inspector. “I’m still getting used to driving in London, you know. Even with my GPS, I get lost, especially in the burbs…or detoured by construction the satellites don’t know about.”

They were about the same age; that meant old as far as coppers went. Amanda had dragged Alan to a party a few month’s earlier—he rarely went to such functions because he wasn’t any good at small talk—and there the inspector had met Hal. The American fit Alan’s stereotype of an old hippy, although his beard was limited to the more fashionable scruff seen on much younger men nowadays. His standard apparel consisted of a polo or Hawaiian shirt, khakis, and trainers. But brief conversations at that party and over the phone later signaled to Alan that the man was no one’s prat, and he could be serious without being maudlin.

“Easy to do,” Alan said. “Probably doesn’t help that you’re switching between left- and right-handed driving all the time going from Paris to London and back. How’s everything going, mate?”

“Good. Ma belle cherie is back on the job, so she’s more content; me, not so much. Chunnel makes the trip easier, but Brexit makes it harder, mostly at the French-EU end. Probably revenge for Brexit. I try to organize things so I have a week with her and a week in London. Not ideal, to say the least.”

Alan winked at him. “Aren’t Yanks used to long commutes?”

“I haven’t been much of a Yank since I was nearly killed in a firefight in Juarez.”

“You’ll have to tell me about that in a less-hurried chinwag over more than one beer. You Yanks do like your guns. Funny how they’re your specialty now.”

“Illegal ones, and that’s probably a segue for the reason of the present chinwag?” Hal said with a smile.

Segue? Sounds like an erudite local. His use of chinwag was also amusing. “You got it. I think I’m up against a dealer, code name J&M Enterprises, Limited. Ring any bells?”

“Yes, but I can’t help you much, bro. We’re trying to bust them. Hard to do when you don’t know who they are. Can’t seem to get anyone undercover in the organization either.”

“Agreed. ‘We’ meaning MI5?” Hal nodded. “We’ve nicked some of the front end of their supply chain. Bloke named Sam Duncan had a cargo-hauling and construction business that delivered arms and ammo to J&M from Southampton to sites in London. And don’t ask which ones. We’re lucky to know the merchandise was destined for sales in London. Shipping invoices for the under-the-table payments  aren’t specific, and Duncan is no longer alive to give us more details. Doubt he’d have known exactly where in London shipments were destined without the help of the invoices to jiggle his memory anyway. Not the brightest scrote there ever was, old Sam.”

“I see. Want to work together? I can convince MI5, especially if you’re willing to share data.”

“That has to go both ways, mate, and my DCI might not be too keen about too much MI5 involvement. Apparently not too much love there, and he’s always looking to glorify himself.”

“Young ass on his way up?” Alan nodded. “Know the type. Believe me, MI5 has them too.”

“I’ll have to work on him. Get back to you?”

“D’accord, monsieur. I’ll check and make sure my VIPs are okay with it too, not that they can tell me what to do. I just want to inform them so I have access to MI5 data. I already have that with DGSI’s and Interpol’s databases, the advantage of being a free-lance consultant. You do realize that J&M is probably only a distributor, right? They take orders and then deliver them somewhere.”

Alan nodded. “Must be real upstanding business people, eh?”

Hal smiled. He raised his glass. “Cheers, Alan.” He knocked down half the glass and made a face as if it were bitter medicine. It was bitter…and warm. “God, I hate your tepid beer!”

***

Alan and Judy were huddled in planning mode when Jay dropped by.

“How’d it go with Hal Leonard?” he said.

“He’s basically telling the MI5 brass he’s going to work with us, whether they like it or not. Wants a to-and-fro on information, though…just between him and us, of course.”

“Sounds like he’s a loose cannon.”

“More like he doesn’t give a rat’s ass about inter-agency politics, just capturing the bad blokes.”

Jay frowned. The DCI’s no prat. He knows the hidden meaning contained in that statement.

“Keep me posted. As long as it stays between him and us, I’ll be okay with it. Any joy with the barrister?”

“I insinuated he called J&M based on what our constable overheard,” Judy said. “I’d wager a good sum that he told them Duncan had cooperated with us.”

“Too bad we can’t nick him for that.” He eyed his two detectives. “Can we?”

“Only if we come at him from the J&M side. When we nick them, they might grass on him.” Alan shrugged. “Patience isn’t one of my virtues. Yours either, I presume. But we have to be patient. We might be able to make a clean sweep later.”

“Keep me posted. I’m off to dinner with the super. Business, though. We’ll be talking about an upcoming reorganization.”

“Another one?” Alan said.

“Home Office, etcetera, etcetera, keeps making budget cuts. Welcome to my world.”

“You can have it, sir.”

“Think we’ll be hit hard?” Judy said after Jay left them. “I rather like the makeup of our team as it is.”

“One can only hope it goes the other way. How many times have I had to steal personnel from other teams for a big case?”

“Too many. But back to reality. How do you want to proceed?”

“We visit with Hal, offering what we have, and he does the same for us. Hopefully MI5, Interpol, or DGSI has a better idea about who J&M might be.”

“And what about the barrister?”

“What you and I said to Jay. We can’t nick him coming from the Duncan side, but we might be able to do so from the J&M one. For now, let’s also consider he might not be J&M’s informant. There’s a whole cast of characters among Sam’s cohorts.”

“And including our team.”

“Yes, unfortunately. Be discreet. Many people knew Sam Duncan. Doesn’t mean they knew what he was up to.”

“I doubt anyone who liked Sam would grass on him. I only knew him from a few drunk and disorderly charges when I was on patrol. That was a long time ago.”

“Understood. As I said, be discrete. And put it on the back burner for now. The barrister is my number one suspect for the leak, but he’s on the sidelines for now. I’m going to need your help working with Hal.”

“So tell me about him,” she said with a smile.

“Easy, lass. He has a French girlfriend, and she works with DGSE, so she can kick arse.”

She smiled. “So can I. No, I’m just curious. I don’t know many Americans.”

“He’s more a rogue of the world than any specific nationality…from what I know about him.”

***

That evening, Alan made it up to Amanda. He took her out to a new Argentine restaurant he’d seen on the way to his pub meeting with Hal. She had similar tastes to his and was an omnivore—no vegetarian or vegan extremes for her—so he figured his predilection for a Buenos Aires-style bife with all the bread and salad you could eat washed down with red Argentine wine would suit her just fine too.

“What’s that they’re dancing?” she asked once they were settled.

“A raunchy tango—the dancing’s raunchy, not the music. Tangos are sung or played, and you can dance either way, if you’re not as old as I am.”

“How do you know so much about it?” She was smiling,.

Caught you, you fool! “Dated an Argentine bird at college, if you must know. Don’t worry.” He tapped his forehead with his index finger. “Not nearly as smart or pretty as you are. You know there were women before you.”

“We both have backgrounds, Alan. Most people do. But you’ve never danced with me.”

“Didn’t with her either. Not good at it, to be honest. Too damn clumsy. I enjoy the music, though.”

“We could take lessons.”

(more…)