[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…)

[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 One

Alan Galbraith wasn’t a patient man, and he was less patient the older he became. He was waiting for a bloke with the bad habit of being late most of the time. If he didn’t need information from the prat, he would have gone home to his girlfriend and dinner instead of sitting in a foul pub, nursing a beer. His third one! He stared at the sorry-looking peanuts in the little chipped dish and decided they were a poor substitute for Amanda’s homecooked dinners, few and far between because her work schedule was almost as bad as his.

Where Amanda had a full head of red hair and green eyes that made her look Celtic (she wasn’t), Alan was balding, a fact that made his blue eyes all the more piercing beneath his wrinkled brow (he had Celtic roots). The Detective Inspector knew he was well past his bird-watching prime, but Amanda didn’t seem to mind his ubiquitous slovenly appearance except when they went out. He always tried to tidy up a bit for such events just to please her.

The two had been in a relationship for almost two years. He knew that she might ruin that by asking for more commitment, but so far their intense work schedules had kept that from occurring. Any day now, he supposed she would tell him she didn’t want to play second violin to a copper’s addiction to work. Of course, she was as addicted to work as much as he was, running a graphics arts company mostly from her place.

Finally Ralph Hodges appeared and slid into the booth opposite Alan; he pointed to Alan’s pint glass. “I’ll have that,” the twit demanded.

Alan called for the waiter, asked for another lager, and added two bacon and cucumber sandwiches to the order. “Ye look a bit gaunt, Ralphie, and I’m a bit peckish. Unless you’ve got something for me, both sandwiches are mine.”

“You asked ’bout Sam Duncan of Duncan and Sons Trucking, right, Inspector?”

“I feared you were under the influence when I asked for that. What did you do? Find out who makes the king’s fancy white shirts instead?”

Ralph laughed. “No, I remembered correctly, Guv. Just got rumors for you, though.”

“I can work with rumors. Proof for the Crown Court can come later. Worth the pint and ten quid. We know Duncan’s lorries are making a lot of extra trips. Can you tell me why?”

***

Up to that time, the only form Alan and his team had on Duncan was drunk and disorderly, which had resulted in a night in the nick to sleep it off.

“One rumor is that he’s dumping garbage illegally.” Ralph shrunk away when he saw Alan’s furious scowl. “That’s just one rumor, Inspector. Another is that they’re moving drugs, ‘nother kind of garbage.”

Better, Alan thought. “Okay.” He gave Ralph his due. “That’s useful. Maybe. Can you take a peek inside a lorry for me?” He’d probably need a warrant for that, and judges and Alan didn’t get along too well.

“Too dangerous. My friend Herb tried to do that just out o’ curiosity, and two of Duncan’s drivers gave him stick, they did. He’s a guest of NHS now.”

Yeah, that figures. Duncan was a thug and only hired thugs. “Did Herb report that to us?”

“You mean to you coppers?” Alan nodded. Who else? “‘Course not. He’s not suicidal, Guv.”

Alan sighed and eyed the limp sandwich when it arrived—limp cucumbers making the toasted bread limp, which was hard to do with good country bread. He took another sip of lager after trying a bite and decided the rest was too risky. He shoved the sandwich over to Ralphie, who had already tucked in like he hadn’t grazed for a while.

Will my DCI consider a raid? Alan had turned down various offers of promotion to remain a DI, a position he loved. As a consequence, he now had a boss half his age who took few risks. Alan would put it to him like, “Jay, I’ve got information that Sam Duncan’s lorries are delivering drugs.” But with that DCI, that mightn’t be enough. And with Alan’s bad luck, only a few lorries would regularly carry drugs. And why lorries?

He’d have to try. He knew Duncan was dirty and up to no good…felt it in his gut.

To Alan’s surprise, the DCI agreed to call for a raid. Maybe I finally won his trust? Of course, the pillock only worried about closing cases to pad his resume, always looking for the next promotion, so maybe trusting Alan wasn’t a great motivation. He didn’t call out the SCO19, though. Considering what they found, that might have been a good idea.

Three of the seven lorries inspected were carrying illegal merchandise all right, but they carried weapons, ammunition, and bullet-proof vests instead of drugs.

Jay congratulated Alan. Sure, for him it’s still a win! But the DCI didn’t wait long to take the joy out of that.

“Now you only have to discover who are the buyers of those arms. Maybe some ISIS sympathizers?”

“I’ll get on that, sir,” Alan said, although he’d already thought about that eventuality. The case no longer involved Duncan; it was bigger than that scrote. Alan doubted it involved ISIS, though. Sure, there were ISIS sympathizers in England. One group had even gone to Syria, earning the nickname “Beatles.” But Sam’s lorries had been headed northeast, from Southampton towards London. Liaison with the Yard might be required. Or, even MI5, if Jay was right. He’d hate both.

He went home to his girlfriend Amanda.

***

The following morning, Alan’s sergeant approached his desk carrying a mug of coffee for him along with hers.

DS Judy Benson was almost as tall as he was. She’d introduced him to Amanda and was already the best sergeant he’d ever had. She wore her dark black hair short, framing her face nicely, which was rather plain and without makeup but often showing a comforting smile. Best of all, she was as smart as an owl and just as quick to pounce on a clue as if it were a scurrying field mouse. They often bounced ideas off each other, about cases and life in general. She was his work-Amanda, and Amanda and Alan had often double-dated with Judy and her boyfriend, an interesting quartet to be sure, because there were nearly twenty years’ difference between the pairs’ ages.

“Late night, Guv,” she said, putting the mug on his desk. “You still look knackered.”

“And you slept like a baby, I suppose. Your beau is off to Scotland, right?”

She nodded and smiled. “You know, I thought last night would close the Duncan case.”

“Might’ve been closed if the cargo’d only been drugs like Ralphie said. I’ll bet the buyers of those weapons will take their business elsewhere now.” He took a sip of coffee and smiled at his sergeant. “We’re back at square one, lass. We’ll get the team together in a bit, but sit yourself down. Let’s be creative. How the hell are we going to find out who those buyers were?”

“Beats me. I’ve got nothing beyond what our DCI said, and I find it hard to believe that ISIS sympathizers were the buyers. They don’t need all those weapons, just a few bombs in lorries or scimitar-waving fanatics willing to be martyrs.”

“You’re a woman with too much imagination. Um. I just had a niggling thought.” He leaned back in his chair—it received a lot of punishment as his pounds increased with age. He took another sip of his coffee. “What if we get Sam Duncan to tell us where he keeps paper records for his weapons smuggling? The bloke doesn’t know computers from cantaloupes. Said he keeps it all in his head and he’s not telling us. Bollocks! The scrote’s much too dumb to have much in that hard head.”

“You mean, make a deal with him? Would Jay go for that?”

“Maybe. Closing down Duncan’s operation plus nicking the buyers would be twice as good for our beloved DCI to achieve his aspirations for another promotion. Keep that in your thoughts for now. Let’s see what the team says. They’re not shy about voicing opinions even when they’re worth crap.”

Chapter Two

Both DCI and team had liked the idea.

It was the second time Alan and Judy faced the heavyset Duncan with the bulldog-like jowls. He looked a bit more deflated and weary this time. So did his barrister, an oily, pasty-faced, hawk-nosed arse with beady eyes who was dressed in a striped suit that made him look like a poor imitation of a gangster in a 1930’s movie.

Judy went by the book, getting the barrister and his client to agree to recording, reading Duncan his rights again, and then announcing for the record all who were present.

Alan thought they might get a bit more joy this time. We already have him for arms smuggling, although we need to know the port of entry for the arms. That wasn’t a big deal. If it came up in the interrogation, well and good, but the detective was more interested in who the buyers were.

“Checked with the VIPs, and they said we can make you an offer, Sam: A reduced sentence if you show us records of who purchased all those weapons and when. Maybe even a sentence cut down to a few years instead of the minimum ten the Crown Court likes.”

“Need it in writing,” Duncan said.

Judy shoved three copies toward the burly man. “We’d need you to sign them all.”

Duncan handed them to his barrister.

“My client and I will need time to study the offer,” the lawyer said.

“Got it,” Alan said. “You gentlemen need tea or coffee?”

“I already choked on that swill you call tea,” Duncan said with a growl. “I’ll try your coffee.”

“I’ll get by with a bottle of water, if you don’t mind,” said the barrister, probably taking in consideration Duncan’s critique yet figuring the coffee might be worse.

“Back in ten,” Alan said.

The two coppers filed out of the interrogation room.

“Think they’ll go for it?” Judy said as Alan watched her prepare the refreshments.

He didn’t mind the cakes, but he agreed with Sam about the tea. He would also make do with coffee, although that was a gamble as well.

“Document’s still about minimum sentences, but two years is a lot better than ten. If I were Sam Duncan, I’d go for it.”

“Unless the buyers have threatened him already. You know: Grass on us, and we’ll kill you.”

“Sam’s company is still a going concern, and he can run it from jail. I doubt he gives a rat’s ass about buyers and their threats.”

“Unless they really are ISIS. That ugly head wouldn’t look too good atop a pike.”

Alan smiled. Judy could be as gritty as he was sometimes.

“I’m imagining a middleman who sells to London gangs. The Yard is seeing more and more guns since Covid. They’re coming from somewhere. I’m betting old Sam is the first link in a chain. Bringing the weapons in from the south, east, or west coasts for that middleman.”

“We’re not able to go after all the gangs, but you’re looking for the middleman?”

“Yes. And whoever works for the scrote.” Alan looked at his watch. “Time to continue our little chinwag.”

***

When they reentered the room, the barrister handed Judy all three copies. “Signed and dated by Mr. Duncan, and initialed by me.”

Judy waved a hand to the tech behind the one-way window. “Please state, Mr. Duncan, that you signed these documents with no coercion from us and upon being advised by your legal council to do so.”

“I signed without any coercion from you coppers, following my barrister’s advice.”

“To close the deal then,” said Alan. “Where do you keep your records for your little smuggling business?”

“My sister-in-law’s place. She lets me use one of her bedrooms as a second office. They’re in a safe there.”

“Is she involved in the smuggling?”

“No. I pay her rent for that office. Works for me; works for her, ’cause she’s a bit cash-poor since my brother passed on. She thinks I’m just doing normal record-keeping there.”

“I’m sorry for her loss,” Judy said.

“She’s not. My little brother was a violent little weasel.”

And he’s not? thought Alan. “Okay. Let’s have the combination to the safe then. We’ll also need you to okay a visit to that office since you lease it from her. I assume she’ll let us in?”

“If I say so.”

Alan sent two detective constables to the sister-in-law’s place. They brought back four boxes filled with orders and invoices. The safe had actually been a heavy steel filing cabinet with a combination, like one might find for Top Secret documents at MI5 or MI6, something limited local police funding didn’t permit.

He called a team meeting to divide up the paperwork load and put Judy on closing the case with Sam Duncan. He saw the dour man being led out by two uniformed constables who would be taking him to jail. Alan waved and smiled; Sam glared at him. The lawyer just stared ahead. Probably trying to figure out how to up his fee? Or even get paid? The barrister had been on Sam’s retainer; he wasn’t Crown Court appointed, so someone paid for him. Someone besides Sam? Alan put that question on the back burner. He didn’t trust the lawyer, so Alan would give one of the team the job of finding more about him.

(more…)

The North-Counties Tale

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Preface

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

Enjoy.

Prologue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re the adjuster?”

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

Later that day, Shaw entered the office.

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

“What did you find on Brookstone?”

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

“Um. None of that’s about art.”

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

“You’re good with her participation then?”

“I guess.”

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

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

Chapter Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And you didn’t?”

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

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

***

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

(more…)