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…)

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

***

The Novice

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Preface

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

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

Enjoy.

r/Steve

***

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

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

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

“A dreary day, fraulein,” he said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

(more…)

[Note from Steve: I’m having way too much fun writing these British-style mysteries to stop now. This one combines the amateur-detective theme of Irish writer Declan O’Hara paired with the professional-detective theme of Scotland Yard’s DS Margaret Bent. Enjoy.]

Poetic Justice

Copyright 2021, Steven M, Moore

Chapter Thirteen

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, Laurie. You’re a doll.”

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

“I will.”

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

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

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

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

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

Grand Cayman? He called Archimedes.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiled. “It fits the facts.”

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

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

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

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

“So someone in the Rovers actually reads?”

“No, either Babbitt or Gilby do.”

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

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

 Chapter Fourteen

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

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

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

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

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

“Had you read it?”

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

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

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

(more…)

[Note from Steve: I’m having way too much fun writing these British-style mysteries to stop now. This one combines the amateur-detective theme of Irish writer Declan O’Hara paired with the professional-detective theme of Scotland Yard’s DS Margaret Bent. Enjoy.]

Poetic Justice

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Ten

Declan hadn’t been too happy to hear about Heathrow’s murder. Am I next? What’s going on?

He was happy, though, that his Da had contributed some valuable information to DS Bent and provided a connection to someone more active in the Garda’s crimefighting efforts. Perhaps I should ring the old man and thank him? But he’d probably just get his mum, and she’d then be worried about him. He was worried about himself too.

He sipped his Jameson and stared out the bedroom window. The smaller bedroom gave him enough space for an in-home office. He imagined the sergeant’s digs would make him claustrophobic. He saw a mother and child from his same building in the little garden area below the window. He could imagine Bent with her child on one of those swings. Or maybe not?

The detective was intensely focused. Not self-centered but focused on her work. Ezra Harris was focused too, but the Cockney seemed less intense than Bent. Still, they worked well together. Declan just wished they’d close the case.

He was in a state. He couldn’t focus on his writing, worrying about what had occurred. He couldn’t think about Bent either. Anytime he tried either one, he was distracted by the kidnapping or the murder. Was this what it was like to be a detective?

He supposed the experience would improve his fiction writing in the long run. Nothing like being able to observe a real crime investigation, he thought with a smile. He knew that some authors like Michael Connelly had looked for that real-world experience with coppers, but he doubted that Michael had been a tunnel rat like his famous character Harry Bosch.

Of course, he also knew that the adage “write what you know” was blather and twaddle spewed forth by writing tutors who had little actual experience in writing. How could a sci-fi writer know about ETs? How could a thriller writer know about government conspiracies? Their life experience—people met, places visited, and national and world events—might influence a writer’s stories, but a lot had to be left to an author’s imagination…and the reader’s.

Those general thoughts led to other more personal ones: Am I involved in some English-Irish conspiracy? Were Gilby, Babbitt, and Heathrow part of it?

He tossed down the rest of the whiskey and went to his browser. He googled “Irish Rovers.” Most of the information was about the singers who are really Canadian, not Irish. He found nothing about the Irish syndicate.

Of course, you prat, they wouldn’t appear in a Google search! You need the Dark Web.

He knew nothing about that underbelly of the internet that criminals and terrorists loved to peruse. But he now knew someone who did.

***

Archimedes’s partner opened the door.

“Who might you be, mate?” Raul Benavides said.

“Declan O’Hara. I spoke to Archimedes the other day. I’m looking for him. Is he here? His boss said he was out, so I thought he might be home.”

“Out and about. He went to get take-away. I’m babysitting. You can come in if you like and entertain Clarissa while I make us some tea. She’s teething and in a snit about it.”

The two-bedroom flat was neat and tidy except for the toys scattered on the floor. It had a galley kitchen at the front side of the sitting room. A baby girl eyed him nervously.

“Hi Clarissa,” Declan said with a wave. She smiled and then giggled, rolling the wheels of a toy truck in her small hands.

“We try to give her exposure to boys’ toys as well as girls’,” said Raul, tracking Declan’s gaze. “So she’ll have time to determine her gender predilections as well as her religious ones.”

“I see.” Declan noticed that the counter between kitchen and sitting room was set with three place settings. Two stools and a small child’s high chair were on the sitting-room side. “I don’t want to interfere with your dinners.”

Raul shrugged. “We eat early these days. Archie often has to go back to the office.”

“Are you a house-husband?”

Raul smiled. “I guess we both are at times. During the pandemic, I was able to work online from here. I need to go in two days each week now for meetings, but that’s flexible, so I adapt to Archie’s schedule. And Clarissa’s, of course. Doctor and dentist appointments and such.”

“So you’re also a techie?”

“Not as much as Archie, although I make more money. You’d think the Met would value their IT personnel a bit more. I suppose you have a technical question for him?”

“I guess it could be for either one of you now. I want to visit the Dark Web.”

Raul frowned. “That can get you into trouble, Declan. People like Archie in the Met and MI5 agents monitor that now, and it is a dark place to be, so I can’t blame them. Criminals and terrorists use computers as much as anyone these days, maybe more so, and that’s where they often congregate.” He eyed Clarissa who was now trying to decapitate a rag doll. “Let me get her sorted and we’ll take a look. Archie’ll soon be back. We can pretend we’re internet Musketeers, the Athos, Porthos, and Aramis of technical wizarding.”

“Thank you for including me in that famous list, but I’m not that skilled. And who will be D’Artagnon?”

“We’ll have to do without him. And DS Dent can be Milady.”

Declan smiled. “You don’t like the sergeant?”

“She’s okay, I guess. She’s very demanding but not yet a villain. She helped Archie come out in that male-chauvinist environment the Met has.”

“She might agree with you about the male-chauvinist characterization, you know.”

“It’s often Archie’s fault. He lets her take advantage. You know the saying: He’s a victim of his own success. He feels obligated, so he puts her demands on his time over others, and then has to work even harder to catch up. I think his job is much more difficult than mine.”

“And that is?”

“I work for Google.”

Declan smiled. “Considering how the EU is attacking that company, the UK as well, I’d guess your job could be demanding too.”

“I don’t have to deal with the monopoly-busters. Ah, here’s Archie.”

***

Archimedes greeted Clarissa with a hug and a kiss, and then she had a fit when he wanted to put her in the high chair.

Raul made a sweeping motion with one hand. “I’ll get her started. Take care of Declan. He wants to search the Dark Web, King Charlie knows why.”

Archimedes grabbed two samosas for Declan and himself, and they went off to the hall where two laptops were set up on staggered tables. A child’s railing made an effective corral for them.

“Pull up a chair. What are you looking for?”

“Irish Rovers. Smugglers, not singers.”

“Ah, the infamous cufflink. This could be useful for work. I’ve already tried, but maybe you can come at them from another direction.”

“What would that be?”

“Ireland. I did a hurried search about activities in the UK. They’re best known as smugglers. But that old geezer Sean Fitzpatrick told Bent they’ve been around for a while. Any connections with the IRA?”

“No idea. Maybe my father knows. But that’s the general angle I want to check, the Irish side of things. It might tell us something about why I’ve been threatened.”

“Um. Have you considered they’re getting at you for something your father did?”

“Don’t go there. A lot of scrotes in Ireland would like revenge against my father.”

“Of course. That’s a measure of a successful copper. Let’s go at it. While I hammer on the keys, could you check on how Raul’s doing with Clarissa? Sometimes looking after her takes both of us.”

Declan retreated down the hallway until he saw Raul with Clarissa and waved. The baby didn’t see him. She was concentrated on a broken-up samosa. Raul smiled and rubbed his stomach without saying anything. Looks like the child has her priorities straight, Declan thought.

“All okay,” he told Archimedes when he returned.

“We do a lot of take-away because we’re so busy. Probably not good for her or us. We try to make up for it on weekends. There’s a barbecue we can use in back.”

Not vegetarians then. “With both of you working, it must be hard.”

“The good things in life don’t come easy. Ah, here’s something interesting. Take a look.”

Declan read the caption: Sign up now to join the Rovers’ crusade. A gold Celtic cross glistened below the sign-up icon. The crusade was described above the caption: Plans against Irish traitors.

“Shall we try it?” Declan said.

“Why not?” Archimedes was unsuccessful; he needed a password. The one he’d used to even get to where he was didn’t work. It probably came from the Rovers in a round-about way. “I’ll keep snooping around.” He pointed to the other laptop. “Do you have a website? I hear you’re an author.”

“I do. I don’t check it often, just the email I get from the contact page. I have a strong spam filter for comments to my blog.”

“When did you check your email last?”

Declan thought a moment. “Not since I received that threat in a text message. Let me do that.” He went to work on the laptop. “Bingo? An email containing basically the same threat, sent to me via my contact page.”

Archimedes scooted over. “Let me have the controls, co-pilot.” He hammered away at the keys. “Um. This is interesting. The person who sent this is Ron Babbitt.”

“He couldn’t have done. That photo shows him restrained back-to-back with Gilby. This is weird.”

“We’d better call Maggie or Ezra. Let me check on Clarissa and Raul again, and then I’ll call the office.”

After Archimedes talked with Bent, she asked to talk with Declan. She ordered him to stop playing detective and then rang off.

“What’s her problem?” Declan said. Maggie had been on speaker phone.

“She’s got a temper. Or she’s just worried about you. Doesn’t matter. Toning it down and subtracting out the vitriol, it’s probably good advice. I know you want to find out why you’re threatened. We didn’t find out why, but you now know who did it. I can’t imagine that Jamaican being an Irish Rover.”

“I can’t even imagine him sending the threats. He might even be a dead man now.”

“Anyone can send messages using that name. I have at least a dozen email and social media accounts, and can open a new one in any name. The internet is a damn overgrown  jungle.”

Chapter Eleven

DI Henry Abbott looked up at his sergeant. “Close the door and let’s talk.” He offered her a tea biscuit after she sat. “Here I thought we’d make this a cold case and get on with something more worthwhile. Bring me up to date, Maggie.”

She did, trying to emphasize progress. She included Declan’s most recent discovery without mentioning him, only Archimedes. Abbott didn’t interrupt her until she took a bite of biscuit and sipped her coffee; she’d brought the mug in with her.

“This case is becoming complex. I hadn’t heard about the Irish Rovers, but I know Sean Fitzpatrick. We worked a few murder cases together. Good bloke, Sean. What’s your plan?”

“I want to have a chinwag with someone in customs, somebody who can point me to a local who’s a Rover VIP. Part of the complexity is that I can’t figure out what Gilby and Babbitt’s roles are in all this. Or Declan O’Hara’s, for that matter.”

“Maintain contact with him. I know he led you to Sean, but he might be involved in some way. He’s Irish. He could be a Rover or a terrorist, you know. The younger generation still harbors bad feelings against the British. It’s an Irish tradition.”

“I’ve read a few of his articles. It seems he’s beyond that, or more the artsy type, judging by some of his poetry. He does the articles more to make money, but they have a more global perspective.”

“I see. Okay, don’t forget Gilby and Babbitt. And with Heathrow’s death, we might be able to justify an examination of his files for the cases involving the Irish on your list. I can help you with that.”

“Thanks. I’m still SIO for the case?”

“You’re doing just fine, and I thank you for stepping up and doing it. I can’t take over, even now with the murder. There’s just too much to do. Keep me posted on developments. Heathrow might have been an arse for his defense of criminals, but no one deserves to die like that.”

She nodded, picked up her mug and the remainder of her biscuit, and left Abbott’s office.

***

Michael O’Hara took a seat next to Sean Fitzpatrick’s desk. “Thanks for seeing me, Fitz.”

Sean laughed, his jowls shaking a bit. “Anything for a co-worker, old stick. What’s up? I had a chinwag with your boy’s squeeze. Not much more I can do from here.”

“They’re not in a serious relationship yet. How’d she seem to you?”

Sean, a father himself, thought a moment, unconsciously combing his bushy eyebrows with his fingers as he did. “She could be a stunner with some makeup, but I liked her, both personally and professionally. Went so far as to aver that police need more like her, good, intelligent women, thinking of your daughter.”

Michael nodded. “No ideas about why Declan’s been targeted?”

“Early days in DS Bent’s case. It might move along now, with the barrister’s murder. There’s the photo of Gilby and Babbitt too. Should put a fire under the Met’s VIPs, I dare say. It’s a complex test for Bent. Her solving it could go a long ways towards a promotion. Has Declan talked about her?”

“No, he just told her to use his name when calling me, so I have no direct comments from the lad. I’ve never had the habit of meddling in my children’s lives.” Michael saw the smile Sean was trying to hide. “Not much, anyway. Their mum does enough of that.”

“Like any good Irish mother does. Do you have any theories about the case?”

“That’s the question I had for you, old friend.”

“Um. I’m not close enough to the case to have any. It just strikes me as unusual Declan’s involved beyond his being a witness. You’d think the Irish Rovers wouldn’t bother.”

“That has occurred to me as well. He’s just another Irish writer.”

“Any good?”

“I like his journalistic-style articles. I can’t stay focused enough to read his other stuff, the poetry and prose. I guess I’d feel better if he wrote in Gaelic.”

Sean laughed. “Always defending the Gaeltacht like an Irish patriot. Makes me happy I studied in England.”

“But you came back to Dublin.”

“Saint Paddy came back to Ireland too, and he unfortunately left a lot of snakes to keep the Garda busy. Not a dull moment.”

“Especially with the Irish Rovers?”

“They’ve been more active thanks to old Boris, so yes, they cause a lot of heartburn. In every Irish port, at the minimum. The only joy there is that customs and coppers from both countries are working together more. Bent’s just the tip of the iceberg. Just yesterday we stopped a drug shipment on the ferry, arresting some plonker Rovers before they could dump the load into the Irish Sea. We manage to win a few now and then.”

“And you and Bent think they’re mixed up in this barrister’s murder?”

“Most likely scenario, at least from my perspective.”

Michael stood and stretched out a hand. “Thanks for the chinwag. Keep me posted on developments. I’m worried about Declan. He might be a poet, but he is my son.”

Chapter Twelve

Maggie assigned Ezra the difficult problem of getting a warrant to access Heathrow’s files. The arguments for that might not sway a judge, though, so she focused on something else: Did Babbitt really text and email Declan O’Hara? If he did, was that photo just a fake? Also, why would he chance that the Met would put two and two together and figure out the photo was fake? In summary, what was his game?

This focus all resulted from Archimedes and Declan’s sleuthing. She first told Archimedes to try to find more information about Babbitt, on the Dark Web or otherwise. She decided to make a visit to the PIs agency.

A gum-chewing Barbarella with silicone breasts was Babbitt’s PA, a woman who was obviously an ornament. She didn’t look at all like Rebecca Gilby. And Laurie Lancaster’s voice sounded like Eliza Doolittle’s before Henry Higgins’s speech lessons. She was harder to understand than Ezra.

“Cor blimey, Luv, the Rabbit never tells me what he’s about. I thought he was on a case.” Maggie showed her the photo. “He’s in trouble. I think that’s Becky too.”

“You know her.”

“Casual-like, Luv. Knew he was shagging her.” She thrust her breasts forward. “Never could figure why. I could give him a real good ride.”

I bet you could, thought Maggie. “Was he working on a case for Mr. Heathrow?”

“Not recently. Those two old lovebirds went somewhere for a holiday. None of my business.”

“Before that?”

“I can’t give out that information. Neither Ron nor Arthur would like that.”

“So you knew Arthur Heathrow well?”

She smiled. “Of course. You might say intimately.” She winked.

“Through cases Babbitt had with that law office?”

“Yes. I guess I can say that. Becky would send work his way that Arthur had. PIs often work with legal firms. Look at Perry Mason’s Paul Drake.”

(more…)

[Note from Steve: I’m having way too much fun writing these British-style mysteries to stop now. This one combines the amateur-detective theme of Irish writer Declan O’Hara paired with the professional-detective theme of Scotland Yard’s DS Margaret Bent. Enjoy.]

Poetic Justice

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Seven

Maggie wanted to talk to him at her place of work. That was convenient, because Declan had just had a traditional English breakfast at The Golden Goose as a reward for a mostly sleepless night and to receive some good medicine to work against stress.

He’d visited his father’s workplace often enough, so her office was more or less what he expected, although much cheerier than the room where he’d made his statement with all its bustling activity. The large room with its many desks and computers was busy with plods working on various cases.

She sat at one of those desks because she was only a DS, even though she was SIO for a couple of cases, so she led him back to that interrogation room for some privacy. They sat facing each other.

“Ezra said you seemed nervous, Declan?”

“I was in a hospital because someone tried to kill me. Wouldn’t you be nervous?”

She nodded. “I can have patrol drive by your flat once and a while.”

“That’d be a waste. We have to find out what’s going on. I’m not nervous now. I’m mad as hell.”

She smiled at him. “Actually, that’s good. You’ll be more inclined to help me even more. I notice you said ‘we.’ Is there any chance your encounter with the mad motorcyclist is unrelated to Gilby’s abduction?”

He shook his head in the negative, sending a shock of hair to his forehead that he brushed away. “No, if you’re asking me if I have a secret enemy trying to assassinate me. I do believe that Motorcycle Man might be the same man who kidnapped Gilby. It’s too much a coincidence if not. But I didn’t see his face. He had a helmet on with a dark visor.”

“Opinions expressed in your articles and posts on your website’s blog are strong ones.”

“Mostly not opinions but my interpretations of facts. Here’s what happened, and here’s why it happened, to put a fine point on it.” He gave her a wink. “So you’ve read some?”

“I was curious. I suspect anyone who reads them will react strongly too, pro or con.”

“I’m paid well for the articles. So are many writers. It’s all about content these days. No one I know makes a living writing prose and poetry.”

“I suppose. But your more—shall we say interpretative?—writings have the flaw that no one has a way of determining whether someone who reacts badly to them will want to kill you.”

“You’re not helping to cure my paranoia.”

She shrugged. “In this case, it’s not—”

“—paranoia because it’s true,” he finished.

They laughed together. He liked her laugh. That moment was soon over, and she returned to business.

“Let me try another tact.”

She shoved some stapled papers over to him. It was a list of names.

“What’s this?”

“Something I had Ezra create, a list of Heathrow’s recent clients, criminals he’s got off the hook one time or another, some several times. Do you notice anything unusual?”

He studied the list comprised of five pages of names. The barrister had been a busy man. When he finished, he said, “Seems like there’s a lot of Irish names here. Are you suggesting that Heathrow and his partners are somehow working for an Irish mafia here in London? Does such a thing even exist?”

“Not exactly mafias, but gangs of smugglers. Most of the Irish names and some of the non-Irish, I’m guessing. The border problems you’ve been writing about create many ancillary problems. One is an uptick in smuggling.”

“Here to there, or vice versa?”

“Both. Some people on either side don’t like the rules put in place because of Brexit and try to work their way around them.”

“Just human nature, I suppose. And isn’t smuggling more in the domain of customs, not the Yard?”

“Yes, for the smuggling itself but not for other crimes associated with it.”

“Good Lord, this world is complicated.”

“And leaders like Johnson have made it even more so.”

***

As the discussion continued, Declan realized that Maggie was grasping at straws. Did she only invite me in to look at Ezra’s damn list? He wasn’t keen on the idea that he might be involved somehow in some smuggling activities via Gilby and Babbitt…and the Yard. He wanted his peaceful life back. How can I write when I have to look over my shoulder every time I go out?

Basically she’d forced him to agree to do just that until the Yard made more progress on the case. He thought she might be going down a cul de sac and taking her team with her. Am I supposed to give her company?

He liked the detective. He would help her as much as he could, but he’d much prefer that she consider other possibilities as well. It wasn’t much fun being someone’s target.

After their chinwag ended, she told him to wait. She introduced him to Archimedes and left them alone together.

Declan immediately liked the tall techie who badly needed a haircut. He asked to see the text message on Declan’s mobile. He spent a lot more time than he needed to read it. Trying to parse the meaning? To Declan, that was clear.

“This bloke’s got some tech skills, just like the one sending that message to Gilby. Maggie was hoping I could determine the origin of yours. Maybe I can, but I’ll need some time. Can I borrow your mobile for a while?”

“I use it for work. It’s my laptop away from home. I even read in the Underground with it.”

“Probably more powerful than your laptop even. I can lend you a burner.”

“A what?”

Archimedes smiled. “Smart phone without sim card. No GPS locator. Might be a good idea to improve your security too.”

“What about my contact list?”

“I’ll transfer stuff like that over to the burner. Minus this message, just in case. And I’ll return your mobile in a few days. Deal?”

“Do you think it will help Maggie’s investigation?”

“Maybe. Depends on my luck.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

***

When Declan returned to his flat, he discovered a mailer envelope in the hall entrance way that had been shoved under his door. He picked it up with a tissue from his bathroom and took it to his study, almost dropping it because his hand trembled so much. He placed it on his desk.

How do I unseal an envelope without destroying forensics evidence? He wanted to see what was inside. He snapped his fingers. Returning to his bathroom he found the box of rubber gloves he used to clean both his galley kitchen and bathroom. A few years ago, he’d had a rash on both hands, and the doctor recommended the use of rubber gloves. The rash had disappeared; he’d continued to use the rubber gloves so it wouldn’t come back.

Instead of working open the clasp, he used a letter opener to slit the envelope open. Inside was a large photograph. The woman he recognized as Gilby. He assumed the man was Babbitt. They were sitting bound and gagged on back-to-back chairs.

The first question that flooded into his mind was: Why me? The second was related: Why not the police? The final one was: What am I supposed to do with this?

He left envelope and photo on the desk and exited the room to sit on his couch. Fumbling a bit with the unfamiliar mobile Archimedes had provided, he called Maggie. It went to voicemail, so he left a message informing her about the envelope and its contents.

I want this all to end. He wished he’d never seen Gilby’s abduction. Is whoever did it using me as a go-between, a person to funnel information to the Yard. Why not to the SIO herself? He’d heard from his Da that criminals often liked to gloat to the police.

Any romantic aspirations he had harbored for DS Bent were now fading. Won’t any relationship with her bring more of the same? He wondered how his mother had managed with his father. Had he only imagined it to be a loving relationship all those years, a delusion hiding a mother’s fear about her family being affected by the father’s occupation? A content creator and a copper. The more he thought about it, the less he felt good about it.

He was working on his second bottle of Smithwick’s when Ezra and the SOCOs arrived.

Chapter Eight

“I think the first thing you should do is take a picture of the picture with your mobile and send it to Maggie. She’ll find it interesting. I couldn’t manage it with Archimedes’s moby.”

“Will do. I saw you were careful handling it.” Ezra slapped Declan on the back. “Good show, mate. We’ll make a detective out of you yet.”

He went and hovered around the entrance door, kneeling down and sticking a finger under the crack. “Big enough gap here. Somewhere along the line a previous tenant removed a plush carpet to get to the hardwood floors. Always leaves a gap.”

“That would be me. I have some seasonal allergies. Pollen collects in plush carpeting.”

“I hear you. Only problem is that someone could come in under the door with a stiff wire and release the deadbolt. It’s then a simple matter to pick the knob’s lock.”

“Good Lord. Were you a cat burglar?”

“You should see Maggie. Her set of picks is top quality. You’re one of the smart ones. Most people don’t even think ’bout having a deadbolt.”

“I can’t make that claim. I only changed keys when I moved in.”

He laughed and then shrugged. “Not important, mate. With the gap, the scrote didn’t even have to enter.”

“Will that photo help the investigation?”

“We’ll see. At least it tells us Gilby and Babbitt are together and both victims. Maybe we can get something from the background that will give us a clue about where they’re being held.”

“But why send it to me?”

“Who knows? Because you’re such a lovable bloke? Maybe we’ll get one too. Or Gilby’s workplace.”

“Why there?”

“The Yard frowns on paying ransoms. The barristers might spring for that, though, I suppose. Depends on what Gilby and Babbitt know. Or maybe they have some evidence the scrotes would not want us to have? Use your imagination. You’re the writer.”

“Maybe the Met is so big they don’t know where to send it? I just met a woman who used to be in the Yard, an inspector in the Art and Antiques Division. Have you ever heard of that?”

“Can’t say I have. Maybe Maggie has. The bureaucracy is huge. I get your point. You think they’re using you as an intermediary.”

“You’ll need to check, but maybe Heathrow and his lawyer friends aren’t guilty of anything?”

“The scrotes would know about them through Gilby, if only recently. I don’t know what the involvement is, but I’m willing to bet Heathrow and friends are involved in some way. Maggie showed you the list.”

“It was a bit depressing, seeing a bunch of Irish criminals.”

Ezra laughed. “For all we know, the rest were Cockneys. Remember Daddy Doolittle.”

Declan thought a moment and then laughed. The droll constable had a sense of humor.

***

Maggie read through the forensics report. There’d been a bit of dust at the bottom of the envelope that turned out to be scouring powder used to clean sinks and stoves that hadn’t come from Declan’s gloves, which had been out of the box. No fingerprints, no DNA traces.

She asked herself the same question Declan had asked: Why go through the writer? Ezra had told her his theory that they didn’t know where to send the photo to in the Met. She didn’t buy that. And Declan had no connection with Heathrow and his cronies. She saw her whole smuggling theory taking a hard crash landing.

She didn’t buy the ransom theory either, but the idea that somehow those who’d kidnapped Gilby and Babbitt were after incriminating evidence the law firm had was likely. Yet why would Heathrow or anyone in the firm feel pressure with the two kidnapped? Could it all just be a big mistake, the left hand of a criminal operation not knowing what the right hand was doing?

Early days, she said to herself. But the DI wants results! She had to face him in ten minutes. It was time for a cuppa’.

She returned to her desk to find a note from Archimedes. She sighed. She put down her tea, popped a biscuit into her mouth, and then took a sip. She then went to the lift. In the basement, she found the jolly black giant waiting for her.

“Traced Declan’s text message. It came from Kensington. Here’s the address.”

She examined it. It looked familiar.

When she returned to her desk, her tea was cold. She drank it anyway and then pulled the file on Heathrow. He lived in Kensington.

She called the law firm. Arthur Heathrow, Esq., had taken a personal day. She called his home. No answer, no answering machine.

She met Ezra coming in as she was going out. “Just in time. We’ll take a little ride to Kensington. You can tell me about Declan as we go.”

“Just give me time to visit the loo, Guv.”

***

Maggie saw the body on the sitting room floor. She told Ezra to practice his skills at lock-picking this time. Once in the foyer, he handed her gloves and booties.

There wasn’t much blood. She didn’t see the wound until Ezra rolled Heathrow over. A hole in his chest told the sordid tale.

“Blood’s all in his abdominal cavity, I’d wager. I’ll call for a pathologist and SOCOs.”

“Now we have a murder case. The DI will be thrilled, I’m sure. After you call for them, do a quick sweep of the downstairs. I’m off to do the same upstairs.”

Everything was tidy upstairs. One bedroom was in use, probably the barrister’s. A small bookcase mostly contained popular fiction. She noticed one of Declan’s novels, The Case of the Distraught Diva. The subtitle: Inspector Robinson, Book One. Different than Gilby’s, which was more recent. He’d published it six years earlier. The cover was a bit sexy, showing a woman’s bare leg and foot with a high-heeled shoe.

She browsed through it and then put it back and checked the bathroom. Neat and tidy too. Was a cleaning woman here at the house this morning? If so, the SOCOs probably wouldn’t find much.

The other two bedrooms had mattresses with bed sheets and covers folded on top, and chests with empty drawers. The main bathroom, in between those two rooms, looked unused as well. She went downstairs.

“Marks on the rug in the study and dishwasher with clean dishes show a cleaning lady was here,” Ezra said.

“My same conclusion. No biologicals in the study, I presume. He was shot here in the sitting room. He must have known his killer.”

“Because he wasn’t shot through the peephole or in the entrance way?”

“Probably opened the door willingly enough and let his killer in. Say, does he have something in his fist. Careful.”

Ezra had bent to pry the fingers open. He held up a cufflink. “Unusual design, I dare say.” He handed it to her.

“An Irish cross. Probably not his.”

***

Back at the station, Maggie called Declan.

“It’s nice to hear from you, Maggie,” he said, “but I’m sure this isn’t a social call.”

“I’d like to have your father’s phone number.”

“He splits his time between Dublin and Donegal. Let me think. He’d be in Donegal now because a course at the training academy just finished. But I’ll give you both numbers and the home number. Why do you want to call him?”

“I would probably just get a run-around from the Garda if I went through official channels. I need a lesson on Irish crime syndicates.”

“Can’t help you there, but Da probably can. Or knows levers to pull to get you connected with someone who can. Are you looking for someone in a particular place? Irish ports, perhaps?”

“Forget the smuggling. That could just be part of their business model.”

“You seem a bit antsy. What’s happened?”

“Heathrow’s dead. We found him at his home.”

“Um, you plods are gathering all kinds of evidence. How are you going to sort it all? You don’t think my father’s involved, do you?”

“No, of course not. But he’s a valuable source of information I have available through you.”

He gave her the numbers. “You might get Mum, so fair warning: She’s very protective of Da. And her children, for that matter. Thinks he works too hard and that he should retire completely. I tend to back her on that. Man’s over seventy now.”

“Will she put me through if I mention you?”

“If you do, she probably will, thinking you’re my girlfriend. She’s always badgering me about how she wants some grandchildren.”

“Maybe I’ll lead her on a bit. I really need to talk to your father.”

Chapter Nine

The conversation with the old copper Michael O’Hara was brief. He wanted to Skype. They used Zoom instead so Ezra could more easily sit in at his own desk.

“The technological miracles of our age,” Michael O’Hara said after they had everything sorted. “What a boon to policing, right DS Bent?”

“Call me Maggie. DC Ezra Harris is with me, as you can see. Call that old Cockney Ezra. We’re recording, if you don’t mind, and he’s taking notes as well.”

“Good show. I hope my son is okay. I heard his name bandied about before my wife handed the phone over.”

“He’s fine. Just a good friend.” Maggie said nothing about the motorcycle attack. “Down to business.” She held the cufflink close to the computer’s camera lens. “Does this mean anything to you?”

(more…)

[Note from Steve: Missing something? For those of you who enjoyed reading my politically-oriented articles about current events in the US and around the world, you’ll now find them at http://pubprogressive.com. Please drop by if you’re interested.]

[Note 2 from Steve: I’m having way too much fun writing these British-style mysteries to stop now. This one combines the amateur-detective theme of Irish writer Declan O’Hara paired with the professional-detective theme of Scotland Yard’s DS Margaret Bent. Enjoy.]

Poetic Justice

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Four

“Sorry I’m late.” DS Bent took her chair across from Declan after shaking his hand and was immediately captivated by the view of London at night. “Are you trying to impress me?”

“Just hoping you will help me celebrate the sale of my article for a nice piece of change and the sale of a few copies of my poetry book, although that’s overwhelmed by the overall success of that gallery event.”

“Congratulations. No saving for a rainy day, eh?”

“If you think I’m a Bohemian, you should have seen the Brazilian painter, Ricardo Silva.”

“I’d heard about him. Never about you.” That hurt a bit, but he made no comment; it was a fact. “What are you drinking?”

“A Southwick’s ale, but please order what you want.” She ordered a G and T. “I’m supposing our meet here isn’t all for pleasure?”

“Pleasure, except for one quick question about my case, that’s all.” She removed an envelope from her large purse, took a photo out, reversed it, and slid it toward him. “That her? The woman you saw kidnapped?”

He nodded. “Any news about that case?”

“Now we’re beyond one question. Let’s get past the hors-d’oeuvres, at least. I’m in the mood for bacon. Any recommendations?”

“Broiled asparagus wrapped in bacon?”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Two invitations by ‘zine editors. They were using up their per diem, I think. I came down from up north to meet them here. That was before face-to-face meet-ups went out of style. of course. Here’s the waitperson.”

They chatted more about life histories and goals until the dinner ended and they waited for coffee and dessert. He then repeated his question. She told him about Gilby and her boyfriend and their disappearances at the same time.

“That’s too much of a coincidence. Seems like someone was after them both. They might be dead.”

“And here I thought I was the one whom too often is called Ms. Doom-and-Gloom. There are no bodies, Declan.”

“Yet. But that’s segue to a good question: Why bother to kidnap them if they were just going to kill them? Perhaps they had information someone badly wanted. Have you contacted Jamaican authorities? The country’s a commonwealth realm, after all. The King could query the governor directly.”

“Writers always have interesting imaginations. Can you imagine King Charlie doing something so plebeian?”

“You know what I mean. Your top cop talks to their top cop. Probably can’t get it done otherwise.”

He could see that she was considering his suggestion. They were interrupted by dessert.

***

Through dessert and coffee, the conversation changed to become more of a first-date chinwag.

“Where do you live, Declan?” Maggie said.

By then she had dropped the more formal DS Bent for the evening, although he couldn’t remember at what point. He’d taken it in stride he hoped, although she still seemed a bit stand-offish.

“Mostly in public libraries or bookshops.”

“I mean your abode, where you sleep.”

He hesitated. “I have a flat.” He rattled off address and telephone number and told her how to get there from The Golden Goose via the Underground. “I have a combination living-dining room with a galley kitchen on the side which leaves me good space for my music system. I use one bedroom for a study and the other for sleeping. That’s all I need.”

“No telly?” He shook his head in the negative. “Do you cook?”

“Sometimes. Why all these questions? Planning a rescue mission because I’m a witness? Will they come after me now?”

“Always a possibility. Beyond that, one, your answers assure me you’re a reliable witness and not just a crazy, reclusive writer lost in his fantasy worlds. Two, I want to see if your set-up is better than nine. I’m nearer my place of work, but that comes with a lack of space, and I’m guessing the rental fee for my studio is on a par with your place.”

“Understood. I’d prefer that you don’t live near me, though. You might want to bounce ideas off me about a case at odd times.” He said that with a smile, trying to head off a bad reaction. Maggie Bent had a short fuse.

The rejoinder still came. “Don’t you really mean I’d crimp your style with your other female friends?”

At least she said other. “I haven’t had much luck in that department. Some people might even think I’m gay. Even intelligent people often pigeonhole other people in ridiculous ways based on stereotypes. Like, Muslims are terrorists, Irish writers are either gay or sots, and so forth.”

“And plods are stupid. I only know of one gay Irish writer.”

He raised an eyebrow. “At least you recognize the importance of being earnest.”

She laughed. “That’s a terrible joke that probably has Oscar Wilde spinning in his grave over in Paris. I should visit Dublin one of these days.”

“The west coast and south are a bit more picturesque…and have better pubs. Just my biased opinion, of course. After all is said and done, though, I like County Donegal best. It appears you’re well read. I doubt they emphasize that when training plods. My da would consider it a great joke.”

“With the graduate entry scheme, one has a shortcut to detective status. I took advantage of that. I was never in patrol.”

“I bet you’d look good in uniform.” She blushed a bit. “Don’t take that as flirtation. My sis looks sharp in her uniform. She hopes to get promoted out of patrol soon. I think Da is very proud of her, maybe more of her than me. He’s never understood my obsession with writing. He likes my articles, though, a lot better than my poetry and prose. Wanted me to work for The Irish Times. I considered it, but here I am.”

“I was the middle child, male and female siblings above and below. My sisters are nuns and my brothers are priests.”

“Your family must be Catholic too. Did your parents want you to be a nun?” Declan thought that would have been impossible—Maggie was too worldly.

“Mum did. But I wanted nothing to do with that. I wanted to help people more directly, out and about in the community, so I guess I could have been happy as a priest, but the Church is sexist as hell and dominated by old misogynist men…like my brothers! I flipped a coin to choose between EMT and copper. EMT won, so I chose copper to give stick to fate.”

“Aha! We’re kindred spirits in that sense. Da always said I’d never make good money as a writer, that a life of poverty would be my fate.”

“Do you make money as a writer? Beyond what’s needed for this repast?”

“Enough to get by, and it’s getting better, but I fear writing articles will soon take all my time. One ‘zine wanted to send me to a war zone to get background for an article. I turned that assignment down. The Irish had enough war during the Troubles.”

“That’s picking up again, thanks to Johnson.”

“Don’t I know it! County Donegal snuggles up against Northern Ireland. Londonderry is too near.”

(more…)

[Note from Steve: I’m having way too much fun writing these British-style mysteries to stop now. This one combines the amateur-detective theme of Irish writer Declan O’Hara paired with the professional-detective theme of Scotland Yard’s DS Margaret Bent. Enjoy.]

Poetic Justice

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter One

The constable was amiable and chatty, but Declan only half-listened to the Cockney’s rambling discourse after the fellow had taken his statement, especially when the woman approached him. Her grim look matched her business-like attire, a modest power suit one might see in any of London’s corporate towers, places Declan avoided if at all possible.

He’d watched her directing two others, a man and woman and presumably lower-ranked detectives like DC Ezra Harris. She apparently gave the stereotypically nondescript plods their marching orders to go knock on doors around the neighborhood. But what stereotype works for coppers? His father had looked nondescript once he’d been promoted beyond patrol. Some, especially those who worked undercover, might think that was a plus.

He’d expected one bobby max to arrive and felt a bit guilty and pleased Scotland Yard had sent a whole team. Maybe because the neighborhood was a bit chichi? Except for his favorite pub, he didn’t fancy it. He certainly couldn’t afford to live there.

He’d felt duty-bound to call 9-9-9. He was standing outside the pub, sorting a few lines of poetry in his head and wishing for a fag, when an older woman came out of a building—he thought number forty-nine, although it had no number and was only sandwiched between forty-seven and fifty-one, possibly indicating even a more posh residence. A sleek black car drove up beside her, and a bloke jumped out to grab her and wrestle her into the backseat. As it drove off, he memorized the plate number and called the police.

After DS Margaret Bent flashed her warrant card, that was exactly what he told her, mostly repeating his statement the Cockney had already taken.

(more…)

[As a native son of the great state of California, I can emphasize with Irwin Pound’s sentiments found in this short novella (or long short story?). My distance from my current home in Montclair to California is farther than his distance from London to the Lake District, but the yearning is probably just as strong. I hope you enjoy this story, another British-style mystery, which concludes today. (For previous chapters, see the “Friday Fiction” archive.)]

The Prodigal Son

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Ten

The next morning at the station, Robert’s team began casting a wider net. Sara Bixby was the primary person-of-interest now—not yet a suspect, but someone who might be able to offer a lot of answers to their questions. Because Robert and company had it covered, Irwin called in some favors in Southampton. He had been on a case there once and become friends with a DCI and a few other plods at that shipping and passenger port.

“We can make it a formal request from the coppers up there, mate,” Rory McAdams told him. The DCI’s brogue showed his work in  southern England was farther from his homeland than Irwin’s had been in London.

“Has to be unofficial. I’m here as a guest, you know. Do you have someone who could check the victim’s finances on the sly?”

“Thinking that your missing woman felt that her daddy dearest was after her inheritance, are you?”

“That’s always a possibility. People with money, want more. And, just because he had money, doesn’t mean he didn’t want more, although maybe he had some bad habits too—gambling, drugs, you name it. Maybe someone could check that out too?”

“I have a hotshot DS who’s closing a case and will have a bit of time to kill while she waits for her promotion to DI. She’s like a bloodhound, she is. Brother is too. We have to watch out for these young plods, Irwin, my friend.”

He laughed. “That might be how Mills feels about me.”

“Say hi to that old fellow. He’s one of the good ones.”

“I know.” Irwin saw the shadow on his borrowed desk. He looked up to see Toby. “Be right with you, lad.” The fellow took a chair and waited. After Irwin rang off, he said, “Okay, what can I do for you?”

“We have a CCTV record of her at a rest stop on A74.”

“Love those cameras. Sounds like she’s heading for Glasgow. Did you check other stops farther along that route?”

“In the process of, sir. Wondered if you knew if she had anyone up there who’d hide her.”

“If she’s guilty, it’s to hide; if not, maybe visiting a relative or friend and oblivious with respect to our search. Let me check with her aunt.”

Eleanor Bixby picked up on the third ring. “My second cousin Angus is up that way. Don’t know of anyone else from the family she might visit—not many left—but she was always secretive about her trysts with questionable men. It could be anyone. Angus is a publican; not the pub’s owner, but he runs the place. The Lonely Stag it’s called, a bit north of the city.”

“Are your people Scotch?”

“Heavens no. We’re ex-pat Londoners, Cockneys to be precise. James was always looking even farther south, but most of us here in Cumbria look north, if they’re not Vikings gazing across the North Sea.”

“I see. Thanks for the information.”

Irwin rang off and went to talk to Robert.

***

“I know a plod up in Glasgow,” Robert said. “He owes me a favor. I’ll call him. Can you call that damn lawyer and ask him point blank if this Angus is in the will. I can’t think of any other reason for Sara to go up there, unless the publican is her new surrogate father.”

“I’ll do that. I also have some feelers in to a friend in the Southampton area. What would we do without them?”

“If you do this work long enough, you come to depend on friends and a network of questionable blokes who’re willing to grass on anyone to increase their dosh. That’s how you play the game.”

Irwin smiled, nodded, and returned to the common area.

Only moments after he sat, he received a call from Rory.

“Told you that our DS is gung-ho. Your victim was bleeding money. His company forced him to get help with his problem with drugs, and he owed money for bad bets at the race track. They’ve removed him from the payroll now, of course.”

“So he wouldn’t want his daughter to make life difficult for him in probate. He might even have been thinking of going after the aunt’s share too. Thanks. Give your DS a peck on the cheek for me.”

“That would get me a good slap or two. We’re even now, mate.”

“I wasn’t keeping score.”

“I was.” Irwin went silent. “You there? Just kidding, old stick. Good luck with this one.”

Irwin called the barrister. The combative receptionist told him he had gone to an emergency meeting in Glasgow. He went to talk to Robert.

***

“Um, Sara’s headed to Glasgow, Leam’s headed there. Think that’s a coincidence?”

Irwin shook his head. “I think your friend there better send someone to check on Angus. I suspect he’s in the will too.”

“You’re thinking we have it all wrong? That she’s conspired with the barrister to take all the mother’s money. Maybe the story about her making a nuisance of herself at the law office was just a lie.”

Irwin now nodded. “Something like that. Or maybe Eleanor’s cut is miniscule, and Sara is still fond of her aunt, even though she really doesn’t want her to have all the money. The aunt lives comfortably.”

“I’ll make the call to my friend. You try to call this Angus.”

“We’d better warn Eleanor too.”

“Do that after warning Angus.”

Irwin was getting a lot of exercise with the back-and-forth between Robert’s office and the common area. Once there, he called Toby over and asked him to find Angus’s contact information. He then called Eleanor.

“Eleanor, you might be in danger, so I wanted to give you a heads up. Do not let Sara or the barrister into your house if either appears.”

“What’s going on? Did you find Sara?”

“In a way. She’s heading for Glasgow now. So is Mr. Leam. I need to ring off and warn Angus.”

“I don’t believe this! Sara’s a hellion, but she’s not a murderer! You plods must be thinking she killed her father.”

“It’s a possibility. We have to sort this out, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’m going to send two constables out to stay with you until we do sort it. Have them show their warrant cards, of course.”

“I guess I’d better get the tea and cakes ready.”

Irwin had just disconnected when Toby handed him a note with the publican’s contact information.

***

“Lonely Stag. This is Angus.”

“Good I caught you, Mr. Bixby,” Irwin said. He explained that he was an inspector from Scotland Yard. “You might have some visitors, hopefully in this order: Some constables from Police Scotland to protect you, and Sara and Mark Leam, who we think mean to do you harm.”

“Are you batty? Sara’s a distant relative. She and that barrister friend are doing a holiday getaway to say hi to Nessie. They’re stopping in to say hello. I had their call just before yours. Figured I’d give them some pints and a few sandwiches when they arrive. I’m only here ’cause I’m already on the job, making ready for late afternoon and evening festivities.”

“Do you happen to know if you’re in Janet’s will?”

Angus thought a moment. “Hell if I know. Years ago Janet told me she was splitting everything between Eleanor, Sara, and me, with that lout of a father forced to be Sara’s conservator. Heard she died but heard nothing about no will, so I assumed she changed it.”

“Apparently not. It’s possible that Sara wants it all for her and her barrister friend.”

“That sounds almost like slander, mate. Do you have evidence for that?”

“For now, it’s a theory, but it’s better to be safe. Ask to see the constables’ warrant cards if they arrive first. In any case, if Sara and that lawyer show up, be careful.”

“Okay. Just to be complete, give me your full name, warrant card number, and location.” When Irwin gave him the latter, Angus said, “A Yard DI and you’re in that poor excuse of a police substation in Cumbria? Why’s that?”

“Cumbria is where James Trent was murdered.”

There was a silence for a moment. Then: “I see. Damn. Okay, I’ll be careful.”

Chapter Eleven

Sara Bixby had hated her father, so she felt no loss. He had walked out on her mother when she was a baby. Of course, he’d come back when he needed something from her. It wasn’t good enough for him that her mother was dead and could do him no harm. He wanted to prove paternity to get Sara’s inheritance too? Sod that!

All her life her mum and she’d struggled while that fat cat got rich. The rich want to get richer, even at the expense of their progeny. Of course, she didn’t know how rich James Trent actually was, but VP in a shipping company? Her mum had ended up well off too, but that was besides the point.

She’d learned he was a twitcher. Maybe someone else had known that? What better way to draw him up the mountain where there’d be a fatal accident! She’d stared at the headlines. There was a witness, some plonker named Irwin Pound. Maybe that prat had sorted things. Otherwise, the plods might try to pin the murder on her.

She’d met Mark at the second rest stop. Once she made a deal with the attendant to park her car there, they continued on to Glasgow. They both thought a good holiday north of the border would relax them a bit before the probate battles began. Why is Eleanor being such a hard ass? And who killed her father? All of this was so confusing. She was lucky that Mark was good at calming her down.

She loved Eleanor who, in many ways, had been more of a mother to her than her own mum. The latter had become distant over time, concentrating more and more on her business interests. Sara thought all that stress might have given her cancer, but maybe that wasn’t medically sound? In any case, it hadn’t helped after she was diagnosed to have that stress added to that of dealing with the Big C.

“You’re quiet.”

“Just thinking. You met that fellow Irwin Pound, right?”

“Forget about that. He’s a copper too. You’d think he’d be the best witness the plods ever could have, but I guess he couldn’t identify your father’s killer. I blew them off. None of this is any business of theirs. We’re almost there, by the way.”

“Thank God. I could use a pint.”

***

Sara greeted Angus with a hug; Mark shook the uncle’s hand.

“Not much action here right now,” he said. He nodded towards the two at the table. “Couple of plods there wasting the taxpayers’ money, that’s all. A few pints to start?”

They nodded, and Angus joined them.

“Is this about Janet’s will?” Angus said.

Mark eyed Sara but then smiled at Angus. “Not really. I am handling that probate case, which will take forever, I dare say, but no, we’re just on a holiday together. Nessie beckons. We needed a break from all the Cumbrian intrigue.”

“I see. So Janet never wrote a new will?”

“Same one’s been in effect since just after Pops left,” Sara said. “She never had time. Eleanor basically raised me. You know that.”

“Good old Eleanor. She’s a strange one, but I guess she’s good-hearted.” Angus glanced at the rozzers. “I think she’d have killed James if she ever saw him again.”

“Not auntie,” Sara said. “I know she didn’t like pappy. Told my mum so before she married him, my mum would say. Her only failing was being a bit strict with me. Wanted to screen every man I was interested in.” She clasped Mark’s hand. “I had to get away. She didn’t like lawyers either.”

“Aye, but we can still toast her,” Angus said, raising his mug.

As if that were a cue, Eleanor Bixby entered the bar. The constables sent by Robert’s friend moved towards her, but she had a shotgun. She took out both of them and then reloaded, pointing the gun towards the table.

“You’ve made it so easy for me, Sara.”

***

Bobby MacGregor had decided to visit The Lonely Stag on his way home to see how his constables were doing. He figured Mills had gone down a cul de sac on this one. He’d have a few pints with the boys, laugh about it, and maybe call his old friend to give him a bit of lip. But he saw the woman with the shotgun from the window as he came around from the car park.

Mills was nae wrong. Trouble’s a-brewin’. Then Bobby saw his two constables bleedin’ from all over their bodies. Bollocks!

His thoughts went into overdrive. He knew Angus well. Could he catch his eye? Between the two of them, maybe they could disarm the old hag. That assumed the constables had been caught by surprise. Angus and he needed to create one for the old witch.

He waved both hands. Angus saw him through the window. He pointed to the door. Angus nodded.

Bobby burst through the door yelling, “The dart master’s here!”

Eleanor tried to swing around. It was Mark Leam who smacked the shotgun upwards, spoiling her aim. Then Angus tackled her just like in his old rugby days.

Sara broke down; Mark tried to comfort her. Bobby called his station for backup, pathologist, and SOCOs, while Angus kept his cousin pinned down.

Chapter Twelve

Irwin was allowed to be an observer at the interrogation a day later when the extradition process with Police Scotland was complete. They had everyone but Eleanor Bixby’s statement on record by then, thanks to Bobby MacGregor. The four others would be witnesses at the trial, of course. So would Irwin.

Bobby hadn’t wanted to interrogate Eleanor. Irwin couldn’t blame him. The Scot had the terrible task of telling the two constables’ families about their loved ones’ demise. That was more motivation for Robert Mills to make sure Eleanor would spend the rest of her life in prison. He scowled at her lawyer, a man he normally respected but considered an enemy at the moment.

Eleanor had confessed nothing. Her short time in jail there and the trip south might have changed her mind about talking. She sat with head tilted down toward the scarred table top. Robert and Tim faced her. Irwin sat in the corner, deciding to say nothing unless asked.

“Eleanor, you can help your situation if you talk,” Robert said after informing her of her rights yet again and stating names of those present for the taping. “We know you had your reasons for committing these crimes. If you admit to them and explain them, it will be in the record. Otherwise, you will receive the full punishment for them that the Crown provides.”

She glanced at her lawyer. He shrugged. He’s probably thinking this was a waste of time. With five witnesses against her for three murders and two or three attempted ones, he probably thinks hers is a lost case, Irwin thought.

“Please be more specific,” she said to Robert.

“I can’t be,” he said. “It’s not my decision. It’s the Crown Court’s. But in cases like this, they consider all pertinent information.”

She nodded and began a tale of woe filled with hate and frustration. She’d killed James. She’d been wondering how to do that ever since she’d learned what was in Janet’s will, a three-way split between her, Angus, and Sara, the latter via the conservatorship. It had enraged her that her sister preferred James to her for taking care of her daughter. Eleanor had taken care of Janet’s brat for many years, after all. She’d then went on to conclude she deserved it all.

James had set things in motion. She knew the lout was only interested in Sara insofar as he could drain all of Sara’s assets. He’d even asked Eleanor to help him ensure that the probate went his way. After thinking about it, she contacted him, impersonating Sara, and lured him to that ledge where she revealed herself and killed him.

The next part of the plan was to find a way to kill Sara and Angus. She’d learned about Sara and Mark’s little holiday in Scotland and suggested they visit Angus and say hi. Her niece had always liked the old publican, perhaps because he was a kindred spirit. Mark Leam would have just been collateral damage in the old woman’s plot.

At the end, Eleanor broke down, shedding tears of rage. Irwin knew he was observing extreme mental illness. That might be Eleanor’s best defense. She needed a better lawyer to pull that off. Would it be out of place for me to suggest that to Sara, now sole heir of her mother’s estate, to provide such a barrister?

***

“So…did you make that suggestion to Sara?” Devon said, putting her glass of wine down and smiling at Irwin, her smile enigmatic as if she’d discovered a secret.

“And she will act upon it. She loves her aunt despite everything that happened. Believes Eleanor needs a good psychiatrist as well and not necessarily time in jail. We agreed the latter would only make her worse right now. Who knows what the Crown Court decides and whether that same mental help will put her in jail after all when she’s declared sane.”

“Yes, if she gets well, they might still put her in jail. You’ve done your best.” She patted his hand. “And I think it’s typical of you. We both care. How is Sara, by the way?”

“Still stunned a bit. She had no idea all this was going on, apparently. I hope that top barrister won’t think hiring him is a guilt trip because she did. I told her to blame me in that case. Mark is good for her, I suppose. He might be a slimy lout, but if anyone can bring her out of her funk, he can. That funk occurs a lot when someone tries to kill you, of course, especially when it’s someone you love. It has to create doubts about whether that person really loved you at all.”

Irwin eyed her as she took another sip of wine, her eyes over the rim of the glass twinkling at him. “I’m going to be a bit bold and make a suggestion for dessert,” he said.

“We don’t have dessert menus yet. You can’t have been here before. This place only opened three years ago.”

“I was thinking of dessert at your place. The amorous kind.” He smiled. “Isn’t your mum at your aunt and uncle’s. Up to you.”

“That’s a good suggestion. We’ll see where my mind’s at after dinner.”

Her enigmatic smile gave him some hope.

***

A month later, Irwin stepped off the train and saw Robert Mills waiting for him. “Welcome back. Come along with me. That real estate lady is waiting for you.”

As they drove to the new development not far from the station, Irwin wondered how to begin a conversation.

“I suppose you wouldn’t have done it,” he finally said.

“Done what? Buy a condo unit when you might need a house down the line. It’s always a good investment. In the worst case, you could pay it off just by renting it out to tourists one or two weeks at a time when they come north to play in the Lake District. It’s a lot cheaper for them than paying for an inn or a hotel, or the Cotswolds, for that matter.”

“Nice speech. I meant pulling up stakes in London to take a lower position here.”

“Are you blaming me for that. Harry will be retiring in eight months. That’s a DI position opening up. Our DCI likes you, lad. And with your background, you’re way ahead of any other candidate. Assumes you can stand working with me for eight months, of course.”

“Did you give Tim my best?”

“An even exchange from his point of view, but I think he’ll get tired of London. Like you, there’s too much of Cumbria in that boy. That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Most of it. I want to see if my relationship with Devon blossoms a bit.”

“Take that slow. You both have tough jobs. In a sense, that’s good. Couples who see too much of each other can get on each other’s nerves.”

Irwin smiled. “But the prodigal son still needs to return home, no matter what happens.”

***

 

Comments are always welcome.

Two more “Esther Brookstone” novels. Did you miss them? Maybe you thought Esther’s adventures ended with the story of her honeymoon with Bastiann, Death on the Danube? No, there are more adventures involving crimes back in merry old England after the couple returns home. In #4, Palettes, Patriots, and Prats, they befriend an American artist, only to find there’s a lot more to her troubles than expected. In #5, Leonardo and the Quantum Code, everyone wants to steal new algorithms for quantum computers based on ideas of Leonardo Da Vinci. If you love the idea of 21^st versions of Miss Marple (Esther) and Hercule Poirot (Bastiann), don’t miss any of the books in this series.

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

[As a native son of the great state of California, I can emphasize with Irwin Pound’s sentiments found in this short novella (or long short story?). My distance from my current home in Montclair to California is farther than his distance from London to the Lake District, but the yearning is probably just as strong. I hope you enjoy this story, another British-style mystery.]

The Prodigal Son

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Seven

Before leaving, Irwin had a call from his superintendent in London—partly a scolding for not relaxing on his administrative leave, and partly some worrying about his condition. Irwin wondered how the old man had found out. He asked Robert in the car.

“He’s an old army buddy. Small world, Irwin. Had no idea you worked for him, of course. I felt obligated to let him know. He values you, lad.”

Robert glanced at Irwin and then back to the road. Robert’s hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Is he imagining our accident?

“Did he say to tell me I should get off this case?”

“I told him we were short-handed with Tim in the ward, so he okayed it. I had to promise to be your protector.”

“You told him my theory?”

Robert laughed. “Didn’t say it was yours. He groaned. But there’s some logic to it, and so I thought he’d give a little less backtalk thinking it’s mine. And be more amenable to loaning you to me for a while. Like I said, we’re old friends.”

“How did you end up here and the super in London?”

“I’m from here; he’s from there. We were in a like mindset, feeling compelled after our service to protect our own. He’s got the worst of it, in my opinion. Our usual cases around here often reduce to stupid tourists doing stupid things, or locals who become drunk and rowdy. Say, I just thought of something. You know, Tim couldn’t imagine climbing up that trail.”

“Even Devon can climb that trail.”

“Probably not like you can. You have a natural gift for it. I was thinking the Mountain Rescue Team could sure use your skills.”

“That would take all the fun out of hiking.”

“There’s that.”

They drove in silence the rest of the way to Penrith.

***

At that Penrith address, Mills and Pound found an elderly lady tending her front garden. They introduced themselves and showed their warrant cards. She studied Irwin’s a bit more.

“Scotland Yard?” Irwin nodded. “My, my, you must be here on important business. We don’t get many London plods this far north. Maybe as tourists, but not as cops.”

“Do you know anyone named Sara?” said Robert, trying to get everyone focused.

She eyed him with suspicion. “What if I do?”

“She’s a person-of-interest in an investigation,” Irwin said.

She wiped her hands on her apron. “You’d better come inside.” In the dark foyer, she pointed to an open doorway. “Sit in there. I’ll bring us a mash and cakes. You can sit anywhere but the armchair over by the fireplace. That’s Oscar’s.”

“Your husband? Is he at home?” Mills said.

“Oscar’s my cat. He’s out prowling and making his neighborhood rounds now, but when he gets back, he’ll be angry if someone’s in his chair. Don’t have a husband, by the way. Never did. Men just want you around to bear their children, and then they become a damn burden when they’re old.” She pointed a scrawny finger at Mills. “I should warn your wife.”

She turned and left, presumably for the kitchen. Mills and Pound entered the sitting room and took seats on a sofa with threadbare upholstery, trying to keep smiles from turning to laughter.

***

A bit later, the woman returned with tea service for three and tea cakes. “I’m Sara’s aunt, by the way, Eleanor Bixby. What’s that girl gone and done now?”

“What makes you think she’s done something?” Robert said.

Eleanor watched Irwin try a tea cake and smiled as he gave a little sigh. “She’s gone several days now. We had a real barney and she just up and left. That young one can be wild. Can’t blame her too much. She just lost her mum, ’twas my sister, and her useless lout of a father deserted the two at a young age.”

Irwin had been standing when she’d entered, roaming the small room, examining family pictures. He showed one to the woman. “I’m guessing this is the three of you, you and your sister and Sara?” She nodded even though she was putting the service in order. “You look very much alike.”

“We all sounded alike too. Fortunately the father’s dirty genes didn’t affect Sara very much. She’s a Bixby through and through, sometimes to my regret.”

“Was he by any chance named James Trent?” Mills said.

“Yes. Never knew what became of him, and frankly I don’t give a damn. Just confirmed my belief that men are useless, present company possibly being exceptions.” She smiled at Irwin.

“Do you know if she had any plans to meet up with her father?” Robert said.

“I doubt it, but she might want to give him stick a bit if he ever shows his face around here.” She suddenly turned white. “Was he the man who was murdered? I saw that on the local telly station.” Both Mills and Pound nodded. “Oh, my. What have you done, Sara?” she asked the tin ceiling. “That’s why she’s a person-of-interest? You want to question her?”

“We’d like to speak to her, yes. Do you have any idea where she might be?”

“Probably doing a lie-in with some prat she picked up. That’s her style. She’s one to up her skirt for a pint if the plonker’s half-way good-looking. I worry she’ll catch one of them diseases.”

“And she’s not mentioned her father lately?”

“There’s a reason she’s a Bixby and not a Trent. Her mum went back to her maiden name, so Sara became a Bixby too.”

“Once again, can you think of any reason she would meet with her father?”

“Other than to kill him?” Robert nodded. Eleanor thought some more. “I still think my sister’s estate’s being settled. Maybe that has something to do with it? Damn barristers are always mucking up things and dragging their heels to up their fees.”

“Is there some reason for the estate not being settled?”

“Not that I know of, except that her mum had quite a bit of money. She was into real estate, you know, investing in inns and resorts mostly. Good money in that here in the Lake District, if you can find reliable people to run them. Tourists will pay exorbitant prices to be near a river or lake. She started small, but by the end when the big C took her out, she was doing quite well. Helped me keep this place too, my little sis did. A good-hearted lady who didn’t deserve James Trent. Not at all.”

Chapter Eight

Eleanor managed to find contact information for the legal establishment handling the mother’s estate. The office was in Kendal, another bit of a ride. Mills and Pound ran into tourist traffic, probably mostly park visitors, but pulled into a nearby car park after miles of Robert’s swearing in Cumbrian dialect.

Barrister Mark Leam handled the woman’s estate, and he happened to be in. The receptionist resisted Mills—Irwin thought he heard the inspector mutter a few more Cumbrian swear words—but then Robert got her attention.

“He can either see us now, or I’ll send constables out from the station to bring him in for a wee chinwag. Your choice, madam. This is about murder.”

Leam received them, none too happy to be interrupted from doing a crossword from a two-day old Times edition. The barrister examined their warrant cards and then gestured towards seats in front of his desk.

“I understand this is about one of our clients. Damn receptionist forgot to say who. Fair warning: Attorney-client privilege means I’m not required to answer your questions.”

Irwin glanced at Robert, saw the color rising up his neck, and then tried to head off a confrontation. “We know you’re busy. We apologize for the interruption of your important task. I suppose everyone else is in court. Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Leam.”

“In court, playing golf, gone fishing,” he said with a thin smile, as if he were making an excuse for his own dawdling. “Junior members of the firm have to pick up the slack. Who’s the client?”

“Janet Bixby,” said Robert, nodding at Irwin to acknowledge his role as peacemaker…or to compliment him for the barb that the barrister had been oblivious to.

He nodded, and a shock of hay-colored hair fell over his forehead. Probably doesn’t like wearing a wig in court, Irwin thought.

“Dead, but still a client. We’re trying to sort out her will. It’s complicated.”

“In what way? Looking for the right words?”

That went by the lawyer too. “Damn fool had more money than God, but she never changed her will. And we can’t find her ex-husband. Estranged husband, to put a fine point on it. He disappeared and was out of her life, so she only changed her legal name and never got divorced. Tried to have him declared dead.”

“He inherits?” Robert said, now appearing to be a bit more in control.

“Yes, that sod named James Trent inherits if certain conditions are met. The will and the desertion precludes any direct inheritance, but he’s still in it. I can’t give you any more details because everything’s pending and might eventually go to probate court.”

(more…)

[As a native son of the great state of California, I can emphasize with Irwin Pound’s sentiments found in this short novella (or long short story?). My distance from my current home in Montclair to California is farther than his distance from London to the Lake District, but the yearning is probably just as strong. I hope you enjoy this story, another British-style mystery.]

The Prodigal Son

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Four

The police substation was mostly dark except for the night sergeant’s post near the entrance and Toby’s desk in one corner of the main room.

“What do you have for me, lad?” Robert said to Toby, who looked no older than sixteen or so.

“James Talent is the victim’s name. He’s from Southampton. Popped up on a shipping company’s website’s personnel list. VP for that company, as a matter of fact.”

“What was he doing here so far north?”

“Tourist. Three weeks of vacation. Must be nice to have that.”

“I wish I did,” Irwin said. “And not the hard way like I got mine the hard way. Was he with his wife?”

“Not married.” Toby winked slyly at Irwin. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t have a lady friend along.”

“My, how children grow up fast these days,” said Robert, winking at Irwin. “Didn’t happen to see him at the inn, did you?”
“No, but that’s a good idea. We should check places around here where tourists might seek lodging. He had to be staying somewhere, and we now have a name as well as a picture.”

“Lots of places and lots of tourists this time of year.” Robert thought a moment. “We’ll make a list, ordered in some logical way—maybe customer rankings, seeing that Talent was a VIP and probably loaded—and divide them up between us. I hope you don’t mind. That’s why I brought you along. I’m a bit shorthanded. Toby, go home now. Time you get your beauty sleep, lad, and I don’t want your mum to kill me.”

Toby made a face but then nodded. “Yes, sir. Good luck.” He handed a photo to Irwin. “Please autograph this, sir.”

Irwin took the photo; it was of himself, probably from his Met file.

“Not often we get a DI from London up here, sir. I want to work in the Yard.”

Robert frowned; Irwin smiled. Why not? He signed at the bottom of the photo with his biro.

“I’ll work hard to discourage you from doing that, Toby.”

“Um, off with you, lad. And thanks for all your help.”

Robert watched the lad go and then eyed Irwin. “Nice of you to do that. He’s a clever fellow. Can’t hurt to encourage him, I suppose.”

“No, sir.”

“Stop calling me sir, damn it! Let’s get to work, Irwin. We need to make some progress on this case.”

They didn’t find any lodging having James Talent as guest. Irwin suggested that the tourist might have been staying with relatives and friends. Or using an assumed name. They became busy developing two more lists.

Monday would be a busy day.

Chapter Five

Monday afternoon, DS Tim Harding hit paydirt when he received a call. He rang Mills. The two DIs had dashed off all the way to Penrith to an upscale hotel where the clerk claimed to have a client matching Talent’s description. The local television channel had featured the story on the late Sunday and Monday morning’s news.

That person-of-interest had turned out to be a traveling pharmaceuticals salesman. Robert and Irwin jumped back in the car and headed back toward the police station. Fortunately the smaller hotel corresponding to Toby’s call was in the next village over from it, more like the inn where Irwin was staying, with only eight rooms and no pub.

When they arrived, they examined the check-in log after showing their warrant cards to the woman who ran the place. She seemed nervous, but, like the first establishment, she’d at least called in her doubts about the hotel’s guest who seemed to match the picture she’d seen on the tele.

“James Smythe? Sounds like an assumed name to me,” said Robert.

Irwin winked at the woman. “She saw past the name, sir.”

Robert glared at him. Irwin knew it was for calling him “sir.” But how can I not call him that? Even though they had the same rank, Irwin respected Robert, who long ago had admitted his mistake in arresting Irwin.

“Have you seen this bloke around here recently?” Robert asked the innkeeper.

“He’s still checked in.” She thought a moment. “I haven’t seen him on my shifts for the last few days, though. There are two clerks here when I can’t be. I can ask around if you like.”

“No, that’s okay. If it’s our victim, he won’t be around.”

She blanched. “He’s the murder victim?”

Irwin figured she hadn’t followed the story behind the picture. Perhaps the tele’s newscast hadn’t transmit all the information?  Young children? Trains? The inn wasn’t far from the small station either, but most trains wouldn’t stop, only tooting their whistles as they blew through the village.

“Probably,” Irwin said. “Can we see his room? Or do we need to find a judge to get a search order?”

“I own this place. I have a policy about visitors’ privacy, but in this case, we can ignore it. I can show you Mr. Smythe’s room.”

She rightly figures the warrant would waste her time as well as ours, thought Irwin. That would rarely happen in London.

“We’ll not disturb anything,” Mills said, “and we’ll ask you and your staff to stay out. If he’s our victim, mind you.”

“I hope that soon ends so I can rent out the room again.”

They followed the owner up to a small room on the third floor. “I’ll wait here on the landing,” she said after opening the door for them.

***

With powdered latex gloves and Teflon booties, Mills and Pound searched the room. Toiletries had no special interest for them, but Robert searched through the valise and larger suitcase while Irwin went through the clothes. Several handkerchiefs bore the monogram J.L.T. The surname didn’t match with Smythe obviously. He told Robert.

“Suitcases’ initials are J.L.T. too,” Robert said. “We’ll want to dust them for prints.” He then went through the little desk’s drawers and then the bin. “Here’s something: The name Sara followed by an address and phone number. No town indicated and the exchange could be anywhere in the area. A job for Toby, I’m thinking.”

“We’re a bit further along at least, inspector. That is, if Sara is our killer.”

“I think we can call in the constables and others helping with the search for now. Mr. Smythe is our victim. We now need to check out this address and phone number.”

“Perhaps he was up to no good,” Irwin said, “using an alias. Was he here to kill Sara? Or to blackmail her?”

“A VIP in a major shipping company? Sounds like a stretch. In any case, whoever it was, was angry enough to kill him.”

“He could be up to his ears in gambling debt. I had a case like that in London.”

“A murder case?”

“An attempted murder case. The target was the man the perpetrator owed money to.”

“Ha! Human weakness often rears its ugly head when money is involved. I suppose the prat was lying to his wife about it too.”

“No. He was a widower. Nasty bloke, though.”

“Can’t say the missus drove him to it then.” He glanced at the manager pacing in the corridor. “We’d better do a runner before she wears herself out.”

They thanked the manager and returned to Robert’s vehicle in the nearby car park.

Chapter Six

“Got it!” Toby said.

Tim Harding was soon looking over his shoulder. “Jot that down for me. I’ll take it to Mills and Pound.”

Tim was a bit nervous as he walked towards his superior’s office. It’d been bad enough working for the crusty old inspector; now he had to deal with two. Although Pound was nearer his age and less gruff, the two together made a demanding duo. Of course, Irwin was helping without being paid. Good of him to do so, but his help sidelines me a lot.

“Have a seat,” Irwin said as he entered Mills’s office.

“Got something, lad?” Robert said.

“Town’s Penrith where you were. Shall we call the number?”

Robert nodded. There was no answer. The inspector looked at his watch. “The missus signed me up for a mash fest in Windermere. Tim, go with Irwin and check out that address. Don’t hesitate to call me. I could use a good excuse to get out of high tea.”

“Will do,” Tim said, his mood brightening.

Irwin, feeling a bit sorry for Robert and his social life, climbed in besides Tim, who was already at the wheel of the patrol car. He saw himself in the young sergeant, an energetic fellow who was on his way up if life would be fair to him.

“I know the way,” he said. “I guess you do too.”

“People fished on the lake when I was young, but I was more into hiking. Go for it. Roads have changed, and all that. I’m a bit stressed, if you want to know the truth.”

“Didn’t count on being roped into an investigation, I imagine.”

“I’m supposed to be recovering from a previous one.” Tim pulled out into traffic.

Irwin saw the vehicle coming at them before Tim did. “Look out!”

The car crashed head-on, airbags deployed, and day turned into night.

***

“You’ll live, Irwin.”

He felt a hand pat his, but the voice seemed distant. Yet familiar? He opened his eyes to see Devon.

“What-what happened?”

“Someone crashed into your car. There were some witnesses who said a small man in a hoodie ran away from the scene, leaving the hire-car there. Coppers poured out of the station and pulled you two out before both cars caught fire.”

“Tim?”

“Banged up a bit more than you are. Broken arm and cuts on his face from windscreen shards.”

“I need to talk to him. Maybe he can describe the driver.”

“My uncle is with him now. You’re staying put until the physician clears you. Tim had a concussion, so you might also have one.”

Irwin moved a bit, looking for water on the nightstand. “I think I’m more dehydrated.”

“Maybe your mouth is dry, but you were on IV. I just disconnected you. If the doctor gives the okay, you can go. I’ll get some ice chips.”

She was gone only a moment when Robert showed up.

“Could Tim describe that crazy driver?” Irwin asked.

“Not very well. Said he looked like a young kid with a Man-U sweatshirt, hood and all. Fake name on the rental receipt.”

Irwin thought a moment. “A woman dressed like that might be mistaken for a kid.”

Robert raised his eyebrows. “I was writing it off as some kid out for a joyride in a stolen motor. I know what you’re thinking, but aren’t you being paranoid?”

“I’m helping on the investigation, and I am your only witness. That’s maybe two good reasons to try to kill me.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that. Let me check out this Sara person. That could sort things a bit.”

“Didn’t the rental clerk ask to see a driver’s permit?”

“Not even. And he might lose his job over that, poor prat.”

“I want to go with you then.”

“Where to?”

“Penrith. We need to find this Sara.”

Robert nodded. “I’ll ask the NHS pill-pusher if it’s okay. I’m going to get hell for having a civilian consultant on this case, so I might as well go all out.”

***

Comments are always welcome.

A. B. Carolan’s Origins. You can’t say A. B.’s novels are British-style mysteries; he’s Irish and he writes sci-fi mysteries for young adults. In this one, Kayla Jones has dreams she can’t understand. Her future seems determined as the brilliant STEM student who looks forward to a research career, but her past gets in the way. As if the chaos afflicting the world and leading to her adopted father’s death wasn’t enough, killers begin to pursue her. With some friends who come to her aid, she’s on her way to discover a conspiracy that can be traced to prehistoric battles waged by hominins bent on conquest of a primitive Earth.

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