[As a native son of the great state of California, I can empathize with Irwin Pound’s sentiments found in this short novella (or long short story?). The 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 One

Irwin looked up to see the woman who was calling his name. “Irwin? Irwin Pound?”

He put down his bacon roll, smiled when he recognized her, but still had to mimic her. “Devon? Devon Blake? Is that you?”

She held up a finger, turned to the cashier, and paid for her mash-up. She then joined him. She offered him a biscuit, which he accepted

“What brings you back home to the Lake District?” she said.

“A bit of vacation time. Super suggested it. Insisted on it, to be more precise. I decided to take it here to see how things have changed. It’s been a while.”

“I’ll say, donkey’s years. But you found that not much has changed, I wager.”

She was correct, except for her. Two years younger than Irwin, that difference was largely irrelevant now. Devon wasn’t a pimply and gangly teenager anymore. He’d been like her big, protective brother when they were children. Now pigtails and freckles had turned into dark red, lush curls and the freckles had faded, and she’d become a woman. A stunner at that, to his mind’s eye.

He was at a loss for how to begin a conversation. “How’s the family?”

“Papa’s passed on; mum’s ailing a bit. A natural progression, I suppose, but it makes me sad sometimes.”

“Better than losing them in an accident.”

He immediately regretted saying that. Her expression needed no words. A driver had killed Irwin’s parents in a hit-and-run. Irwin had gone to live with his aunt and uncle in London.

“Yes, that was terrible. Tell me about your life since then.”

He was thankful Devon didn’t reinforce those sad memories even more. He thought a moment but then opened up to her as he’d always done before when they were children, even telling her about nearly getting killed during his last case, the event that had led to his unplanned-for vacation.

She’d always been a good listener, and he had always liked doing that for her too. So he learned she was now a nurse and had put all those skills to good use while also caring for her mum.

***

Irwin bid farewell with a promise to keep in touch followed by a hug and kiss to her cheek. He went off to begin his hike. Although “home” was in the Lake District, he’d always preferred hiking in Cumbria’s hills and mountains to fishing. His climb that day was one he’d mastered when he was fourteen. It wasn’t for amateurs, and he was a bit out of practice. His kit contained plenty of rope, pickaxe, hammer, and pylons; his old hiking boots helped to grip rock ledges slippery with mist and moss.

It turned out he only needed the boots. There was still a trail of sorts above the pub’s little village that he’d known well and still could envision in his mind. He headed for his favorite place, an outlook where you could sometimes see from west to east coast if faraway clouds didn’t shroud one or the other. There was another outlook about three hundred feet below him, but his special place offered the better view. He felt he could touch the sky as well. A complete panorama revealing some of Gaia’s magnificence.

He’d been there almost an hour enjoying the nearly forgotten vista when a sound behind him was a surprise at that desolate spot where few hikers ventured. He turned to see Devon scrambling onto the ledge. He offered her a hand up to complete her climb.

“There was a time when I’d have prohibited you from making such a dangerous climb,” he said, mitigating his reproach with a smile because he was happy to see her and have her share his view. “We could have come together, you know.”

She laughed. “I wanted to prove to you I can do it alone now. I’ve been making this climb for a while.”

“Without mum’s approval, I’d wager. She never liked my climbing and discouraged you from doing it too. Maybe the reason I discouraged you?”

“She was only worried that she’ll never have any grandchildren; still is. Always afraid too that I’ll catch some terrible disease at the hospital, even though she benefits from my nursing skills. I come here from time to time to get away from her, truth be told. I can’t afford a nurse for her, so I’m that person, like I said at the pub. A few neighbors help at times with her. And she sometimes visits an aunt and uncle on my father’s side.”

He nodded. Both her occupation and her dedication to her mother were evidence of a very caring person. “I suppose—”

***

Irwin was interrupted by a heated exchange of words from below them. Devon and he looked over the edge at the barney going on between a man and a woman. The man was older, a bit jowly and with bushy eyebrows; his face was beet red. They could only see the backside of the woman. She had straight red hair, not curled like Devon’s.

Both of them were dressed in hiking gear that might as well have had the price tags still on. Perhaps amateur twitchers, thought Irwin, spotting the man’s binoculars that swung on the strap around his neck. Around Cumbrian lakes and rivers and in the hills and mountains one could often spot birds not found anywhere else in England.

“I will not do that! No way!” Irwin heard the woman say. She then pushed the man over the edge.

“Oh my God!” Devon said.

(more…)

Dr. Carlos and the Ambassador

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

[Note from Steve: I’ve written several Dr. Carlos stories, most of them collected in a free PDF download—see the list on my “Free Stuff & Contests” web page. Carlos Obregon is the chief medical officer on the explorer starship Brendan, and his stories are a bit before Rogue Planet. This one harks back to his first tour on the starship when he joins its crew. Enjoy.]

“You look a bit lost,” said the towering Tali who was eyeing Carlos Obregon with suspicion, although Carlos only knew that by the twitching ears. “This shuttle is bound for the starship Brendan.”

Carlos felt no shyness when he marched up to the Tali and showed him his orders on his tablet. The ET took them in one ebony hand and scrolled with the other, all this a necessity because Carlos was not yet linked to the Brendan‘s AI. The Tali’s hands matched his inscrutable black, leathery face; otherwise the Tali looked like a rusty Earth bear, now extinct because that Tali invasion of the Human’s home planet long ago had destroyed much of the local flora and fauna.

The Tali studied Carlos for a moment and then made a rumbling sound. Carlos knew that was the equivalent of a Human laugh. He had socialized with Tali at the Academy, something some Humans still found hard to do because of that invasion so long ago. In fact, as a doctor, Carlos knew Tali inside and out, mentally and physically, and he could save their lives if needed—he’d even written several papers on special surgical procedures for them—his knowledge about the many non-Human citizens of ITUIP, the International Trade Union of Independent Planets, was required because starships often had mixed crews.

“You almost didn’t make the shuttle, Dr. Carlos,” said the Tali. He tapped his right ear, both had stopped twitching, and lowered his head slightly, a gesture Carlos knew to be a type of greeting. “Better get aboard. I’m your pilot Marshak. There’s no co-pilot on this last run.”

Carlos was familiar with starship shuttles; he even knew how to fly them, although he was no expert. Having studied Brendan, he knew this was one of two, and either could be used to ferry personnel to and fro between orbits and planetary surfaces as its crew worked to fulfill the Space Exploration Bureau’s charter to find new planets to add to the catalog of potential colonies.

***

There was room in the shuttle for pilot, copilot, and ten crewmembers, twenty if ten stood in the cargo area, which was generally filled with supplies stored behind two small helis. Between orbital observations and planetary surveys, a new and unexplored planet could be catalogued in twenty standard days or less.

(more…)

A Life Not Lived

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

[Note from Steve: If you read my short story “The Case of the Carriageless Horse” in World Enough and Crime, or listened to the inimitable Donna Carrick read it in her podcast (see the link on my Home Page, you know that its subject is Detective Castilblanco’s first case. This is another early case, something like a sequel to that first story. Chen is around somewhere, just not yet Castilblanco’s partner.]

I went to greet Rob Jackson when he got out of prison. My old mentor at NYPD, Al Dempsey,  had put him there twenty-six years earlier for the rape and murder of a teenage girl. I wasn’t partnered with Dempsey back then, but I thought he’d want me to express regrets to Rob. Our justice system not only moves slow; it can make some really bad mistakes. Good old DNA freed Rob and made the crime into a cold case.

Rob spit to the side of me after giving me the finger—couldn’t blame him for taking out on me his frustration—and said, “Dempsey was a bro, but the SOB always believed I did it. May he rot in hell!”

“He still would have been here, even if you don’t believe it. Can I drive you somewhere?”

“The Bronx.” He now managed to direct a smile my way. Maybe he figured I wasn’t responsible for his misery? “Thanks. Need to see the old ‘hood before moving on. I have a bus ticket, but you’ll get me there faster.”

“Where will you go after that?” I said, knowing ex-cons often received a raw deal from society, wherever they ended up. And, in this case, it was society that had really committed the crime!

“Got some family in North Carolina. They tell me our kind doesn’t get much respect down there, but they’re the only family I got.”

I nodded. That Mason-Dixon line still indicated about as far south as I liked to get. Hispanics weren’t popular down there, and, taking states’ rights to the limit, both Blacks and Hispanics had a harm time voting down there, so nothing much changed for the better—it had only become worse, in fact.

***

Rob became mute at the beginning of our journey, but opened up a bit later on as his justifiably sour attitude dissipated.

“You must know how it is, Castilblanco. You get two strikes ‘gainst you just for being born in the Bronx and being black, and that damn place gives you the third one real quick-like. I had my first knife fight at eight.”

“It’s tough,” I admitted. “Anyone who survives that deserves a combat medal.”

“You’re ex-military, right?” I nodded. “That’s one way to escape the damn place. Did combat seem as bad as here for minorities?”

“Different, because you’re fighting jerks who lump all Americans together as the enemy. In the Bronx, you’re white, black, Puerto Rican, whatever. Often seemed like warring tribes. It’s better now, Rob.”

“I read the rags and listen to the news. You could be right. Just want to see for myself.”

We then talked about a lot of things—family, religion, politics; most things a guy inside might want to hear about when he gets out. Prison life sucks.

I left him at an old friend’s place. Teddy was in a wheelchair, so Rob had to bend down to give him a big hug.

***

Two weeks later Rob was murdered. Teddy called me, but I already had the case. Felt kind of weird going through the preliminary motions when the victim was someone I’d just met…and liked. Old ME gave me the silent treatment for the most part, but got enough info out of him to know it was murder, another one for this new homicide detective, but a case I didn’t particularly want.

“Do you want to recuse yourself?” my lieutenant said.

“No, I’d like to bring Rob’s murderer to justice.”

“Then get outta here and do it, or do you need me to change your diaper first?”

Lieutenant was like that. Didn’t put much stock in my service record overseas or the few cases I had already solved. So I started to snoop around the Bronx. Knew it well enough. Hadn’t changed much, but I was seeing things through cops’ eyes now—a prodigal son who didn’t quite feel at home.

My first stop was Gretchen’s Grill. That grill is really a sleazy bar, and Gretchen was really Smiley, a big black fellow with a squished nose who probably never had the need for a bouncer. Nice guy, though, and Teddy had hung out there, recently taking Rob along with him. Teddy had suggested I talk to Smiley.

***

I had to look up at Smiley…literally. I’m not a small man, but he’s really big! With that gap in his upper teeth, he looked a bit like Strahan on steroids. Shook my hand, leaving it numb.

“Nice guy, that fellow Rob. Talk about bad luck. Never got to live his life.” He eyed me from up there in the clouds. “You put him away?”

“My old partner. He’d be regretting it now.”

“Lady Justice is blind, as they say.” He thought a moment. “I’d check with Mr. Grasso. He knows most everything bad that’s going or gone down in this city.”

Grasso was a local mobster. Hadn’t met him yet, and didn’t know if I wanted to.

“And he does nothing about it?”

“He’s responsible for some of it. Won’t tell you about that, I ‘spose. If he’s not involved, he might help you, though. To eliminate the competition, you know.”

What’s the adage? The enemy of my enemy is my friend? I went to see Grasso. Wasn’t in his usual hangout. I told his toadies I’d be back in the morning.

***

Morning meant eleven in mobster time. Gangsters tend to have late nights, doing crap never seen in movies. I get home late but not that late—different kind of crap—I watch the Channel 7 news. That’s a lot more legal than what Grasso probably did, although I do have a crush on one crime reporter I admire from afar. Maybe I’ll have a case where I’ll meet Pam Stuart someday?

So I easily kept more or less to Grasso’s schedule, showing up at the little cafe in Little Italy from where he ran his fiefdom. He was sitting on a bar stool snarfing down fried eggs and bacon and drinking black coffee. Thought he might need the sugar—he didn’t look sweet and lovable.

(more…)

Mrs. Blake

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Five

Blake told Sally to drive on to his flat and he’d be there as soon as he could. He had to charge Houghton and gather all the paperwork together for the Crown. Clarke had a previous commitment. Besides, it was more his task than hers.

He was tired by the time he walked in through his flat’s front door. He stopped in his tracks upon seeing Sally sitting on the sofa with his mum.

“What are you doing here, Mother?”

“A quick visit. Leo wanted to see if I can expand here. Well, in Oxford, to put a fine point on it. Riversford might be a bit too quiet.”

Except for murders, thought Blake. He smelled the aroma of fine Italian cooking and saw the table set for four people. “Um…is Leo with you?”

“That I am, Logan,” said a tall, bear-like man striding from Blake’s bedroom. He had on one of Sally’s aprons. “Your mum thought it might be a good time for us to get to know each other since I’m going to be your new stepfather.”

Blake put a hand on the door jamb to steady himself. “Mum?”

“You look pale, Logan. Poor boy needs some food, Leo.”

Sally stood, walked up to him, and gave him a kiss. “I’ve learned so much about you, luv, from this chinwag with your mum.”

“I suppose,” Blake said, looking at the three conspirators and feeling trapped.

“Moi aussi,” Leo said. “And your Sally is a charming lady. Two charming people in one night, luv,” he said to Mrs. Blake. “My cup runneth over. Sally says you nicked another murderer. You must tell us all about it.”

***

Clarke handed one snifter to Benford, sat hers down, and picked up the stereo remote. She put on some soft jazz and took a seat next to him on the sofa. He smiled at her. She eyed him over the snifter’s brim as she enjoyed the aroma of the cognac.

“Simple elegance,” he said. “That’s what I like about you. Nothing pretentious, just elegant. Who’s playing?”

“You’ll never guess.”

Benford eyed the baby grand. “You?”

She shrugged. “I like romantic jazz improv. It’s soft and a mistake just sounds like part of the improv. That would drive other members in a trio or quartet nuts, though.”

(more…)

Mrs. Blake

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Four

The tall man sitting across from Clarke’s DCI turned and smiled at her.

“He’s Agent Bishop,” said Clarke’s boss, looking about as happy as Clarke.

The tall man nodded but extended no hand to shake.

“I smell a government rat,” Clarke said. “I’m the SIO for a murder investigation. I don’t have time to waste on agents of any type—literary, arts, insurance, whatever—they’re all pariahs.”

“Um, Mr. Bishop is requesting that we release Mr. Chernoff.”

“Immediately,” Bishop said.

“Go to hell,” said Clarke. “He’s a suspect.”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Bishop. “The Home Office wants him released.”

“At your recommendation, I’m guessing. And I don’t give a rat’s arse if the king himself wants him released. He’s a suspect in a murder investigation. We just interrogated him. Still are in the process of doing so, to put a fine point on it.”

“Are you charging him?” said the DCI.

“There are gaping holes in his story. We can keep him here for the allotted time while we check them out. And he’s got a lot of form.”

“We don’t care,” said Bishop. “You must release him.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You can claim his cell. Or one elsewhere that’s less comfortable.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” the DCI said. “DI Clarke is one of my best investigators. I don’t think MI5 can do that without a hell of a lot more paperwork. Why don’t you let her keep him here until she follows up on the interrogation?”

“Because I don’t have to do that. You people have zero leverage when it comes to national security.”

“I get it,” said Clarke. “You clowns are using him to grass others. Always the same old story. You and your other agents wouldn’t know how to solve a crime if the criminals bit you on the arse.”

The DCI smiled as the agent turned red. “I guess I’ll have to be Solomon here. Patty, if you get evidence on this guy, we can charge him, unless MI5 hides him or takes him out of the country. If he has anything to do with this murder, he will be punished for it, I guarantee it.” The DCI eyed Bishop. “And for your information, Agent Bishop, I have friends in the home office with a lot more weight than you have.”

The agent frowned. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that threat.”

“On the contrary, broadcast it anywhere you like and to whomever. All the better, I’m thinking, so that everyone knows what meddlesome plods are in charge of national security. I know your type too, low-level paper pushers that should be emptying rubbish bins instead of hindering honest policework. I’d love to take you down a notch.”

Bishop stood, his face still red. “I’m going to collect Mr. Chernoff. Just try and stop me.”

“I’m not stopping you, but I’ll register a protest with the home office.”

Bishop nodded and left.

“Why are you smiling?” the DCI asked his DI.

“Thank you for the support, sir.”

He shrugged. “Don’t get used to it. But he was an obnoxious prat, wasn’t he?”

“So who was that well-dressed gentleman?” Blake asked when Clarke returned to her desk.

“Some arse high enough in the pecking order that he can make us release Chernoff.”

At that moment, Bishop appeared again, guiding Chernoff by the elbow. After the two left the station, all the detectives, like Blake, wanted to know what had happened.

“We can still arrest Chernoff if we find contradictions in his story. Blake—” Her mobile interrupted Clarke. After listening a bit and then ringing off, she turned to her group. “Okay, back to work, everyone. We have another murder. Basically the same MO. Blake, you’re with me.”

***

Two hours later the new victim was on her way to the morgue and SOCOs were still investigating the crime scene. The dead woman had been found at the wheel of an old lorry that was rusting away in a junkyard. The Fred Flintstone look-alike who’d been ready to crush it and end its days on Earth was still shaken when Clarke and Blake left. Blake and a few others had gone to inform and interview both women’s flatmates, something they hadn’t got around to doing with the first victim. The rest were staring at the murder board that now had two victims. The silence was oppressive.

(more…)

Mrs. Blake

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Three

Unfortunately Blake’s mobile woke him. The aroma of frying bacon filled the air, an aroma that could wake the dead, or at least the nearly dead like Blake. So much for the lie-in.

“Thought I’d catch you before you head off to work,” his mum said, her voice on the mobile muted and a bit raspy.

“Want to share a scramble and rashers?” Sally called out.
“Who’s that?” his mum said.

“Just a minute, mum. Be right there, luv.”

“Are you shagging that Welsh lass, son? Good for you!”

“Mum, please. Give us some privacy, won’t you?”

“Only if you’re going at her now. Otherwise, tell me all about it.”

His mum was always worried he’d never give her grandchildren. He thought she also might live vicariously through his relationships, which had been yet another reason to leave London. He loved her, but sometimes distance was a blessing.

“I’m badly in need of some sustenance. Everything okay with you?”

“Couldn’t be better. Leo’s here. I might be getting serious about him. Maybe we could have a double wedding?”

Blake groaned. Leo? He tried to remember. Ah, the Italian banker, Leonardo Ricci. His mum had mentioned the widower who was an extreme example of the adage that a way to a man’s heart was via his stomach. Blake hadn’t been too concerned about Leo. His mum had her flings, but her true love had always been Blake’s father.

“You’re sixty-seven, mum. You always said there wouldn’t be anyone else but Pops.”

“It was hard to imagine meeting anyone who could compare to your father, but I think he would have wanted me to be happy and would have liked Leo. And he loves to make culinary experiments here with me. We sing arias or dance in the nude—”

“Stop!” Blake tried to get that image out of his head. “I’ll call you later. Although you might’ve killed my appetite, I need breakfast before my work day. Love you.”

“Back at you, Logan.”

She was giggling as she ended the call. Leo?

“What did your mum want?” said Sally as Blake joined her. She slid eggs and rashers onto his empty plate. “And what the hell time did you get home last night?”

“Mum just thinks she has to check on me. And we had some success with the case last night. At least we know who the victim is and where she worked.”

He told Sally the story between bites.

***

“You’re looking a bit worse for wear,” Clarke said when she stopped at his desk to hand him a coffee. “We have a lot of case work today. Get settled a bit, and then I want to interrogate Mr. Chernoff. I’ll have a constable bring him from his cell up to the room. Meet you there in ten. I want to talk to the DCI about the gamblers. He moves in some VIP circles, so maybe he’s recognized some names.”

“I got your request and the list,” the DCI said to Clarke when she entered and took a seat. “I know several people on it. All upstanding citizens who are basically harmless idiots. You have to wonder, why bother? With online gambling, you can play blackjack at home.”

“No sweet young things serving you liquor there,” Clarke said, “wiggling their breasts and bottoms.”

He smiled. “Point taken. The ones I know are men. Dirty old men in your mind’s eye?”

She laughed but then became serious. “I’ve no problem with gambling or sexual appetites as long as neither are addictions that destroy families. My problem with men is when they become abusive arses. You know that.”

(more…)

Mrs. Blake

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Two

Although the DCI was at their briefing, he let DI Clarke handle it. He only asked a few questions as she handed out assignments to her group of assorted constables and one sergeant. They made him look good, so why interfere?

Clarke had turned out to be his best DI out of three. All did their jobs well, but maybe too by-the-book. Like the DCI, Clarke could be creative and intuitive in an investigation. DS Blake had been a good hire too; he could work wonders in an investigation as well and had done so since his arrival in Riversford. The DCI didn’t buy into the theory that it all those came from his experience in London. He was just a good copper, a natural. The DCI knew Clarke was worried that he might get promoted. She would lose him then, and so would Riversford—there was no other DI position open at the substation.

“And you’re all thinking, what’s this DI going to do?” Clarke said to finish her organizational brief. She held up a small plastic disk. “Gambling chip. After the post mortem, I’m going to try to find out where it came from. Our victim had it clenched in one hand.”

“Think it’s a message?” said Blake.

“Or rigor mortis,” said a constable, getting a few laughs as well as a glare from the DCI.

“I will find out. Hopefully it tells us who the victim is and where she came from. Okay, let’s get going. This girl has a name and a family somewhere, and we all need to resolve this murder case by finding her killer. We owe every victim that much.”

***

Clarke left the Riversford substation deep in thought. The post mortem’s results had been troubling. There had been a small injection site in the victim’s armpit and traces of toxin in her body. She’d been poisoned. They still had no name for the victim. Every murder victim for her needed help from the police because they had no way to bring their assassins to justice. It was up to coppers like Clarke. She was lucky her DS was motivated in the same way.

She drove to a nearby park, ducked out of her Morris, and soon spotted the dapper old man who was sat on a bench, feeding a few squirrels he rewarded for braving the cold. He placed the package of seeds next to him and pulled his watch fob from his vest pocket to check the time as if he were a conductor on a train. He then smiled at her.

(more…)

[Note from Steve: In the collection Sleuthing, British-Style, I introduce DI Clarke and DS Blake in three short stories as a homage to British-style mysteries. While the following is another story that didn’t make the self-imposed editorial deadline for that collection (as a test case for Draft2Digital), you might also find the following short story equally entertaining. By the way, the title is explained in subsequent chapters.]

Mrs. Blake

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter One

DI Patricia Clarke joined DS Logan Blake in the alleyway. Her sergeant was watching the pathologist and SOCOs go through their routines. Old Doc Olbers blocked her view, so she asked Blake what he knew.

“Young woman, maybe early twenties or even late teens. Tarty layers of makeup, frilly blouse, miniskirt, and boots.”

“Dressed for a night out,” said Clarke with a nod. “Or she could be a student out to make some extra cash as a waitperson.” She pointed at the scruffy fellow sitting on the meat truck’s tailgate. “Who’s the wrinklie?”

“He was tip-dipping and found the victim. A bit shaken, I dare say. I’m letting him recover with a cuppa, and then I’ll interview him.”

“Good plan. Meanwhile, let’s say hello to our esteemed pathologist.”

“Good morning, detectives,” Frank Olbers said, still performing his Russian Cossack dance to find another position from which he could examine the body. “Nothing obvious as to what killed this poor young thing, and the cold air makes TOD hard to determine. I’d guess between when the party ended and when that gentleman over there found her. Come to my own party tomorrow to find out more.”

“Will do.” Clarke decided to ask the important question for any female victim at a crime scene. “Any sign of forced intercourse?”

“None, forced or otherwise. Nothing recent, at any rate. Not a virgin, but that’s not surprising these days. DNA from her assailant might be available elsewhere. Maybe the bins?”

***

The detectives got more from Arthur Payton, the old homeless man who’d found the victim—not so old really; he just looked old.

“People throw away good food and liquor, officers, so I usually can get by with scraps and drinks people toss into the rubbish bins. Or on the streets if I’m lucky; there are always litterers.” He smiled at them. Blake noted the man badly needed to visit a dentist. “Not terribly good hygiene, I’ll admit, but what can I do? Anyway, I stopped in my tracks when I saw her arm hanging out of that particular bin. I managed to haul her out and checked for signs of life.”

“Did you check inside the bin? For a purse, mobile, whatever?”

Clarke nodded. Her new sergeant could hold his own now. She felt a bit superfluous.

“I just sat and stared at her for a while, thinking she must be someone’s daughter or girlfriend, and that someone will be missing her.”

“I’ll tell Sally,” Blake said to his DI. “They’ll need to search all these bins.”

“Her team will just love you for that.” Clarke winked at her sergeant.

After Blake returned, Clarke decide to leave Payton in Blake’s able hands and go back to the station to start organizing yet another murder investigation. Blake had thought there’d be more peaceful policing in Riversford than in London. The town snuggled in the Thames River Valley in that rural area between Oxford and the Cotswolds, but this would be his fifth murder case in as few months.

She nodded to Sally leaving the alley. At least Blake had a solid relationship with the SOCO as compensation. The two seemed to form a good team, for policing and otherwise.

***

“Mr. Payton, you said you checked for signs of life,” Blake continued. “Do you have medical training?”

Payton laughed. “You think I left a good job at NHS or sumpin’? I learned to check for life signs in the army. You want everyone to get home, marra, the wounded or the dead, but you help the wounded first. Battlefield triage’s their name for it. I call it looking out for your brothers who’re still alive first. The dead don’t rightly care.”

Blake nodded. His father had probably practiced the same thing. “Did you see anyone else around, or hear voices?”

Payton smiled and tapped his head. “I always hear voices, lad. Some call it PTSD. But there weren’t anyone else around.” He held up his paper cup. “If we be done now, is there any chance I can get another cuppa?”

“I’ll be finished here in a bit. I just need to talk to the pathologist and SOCOs some more, and then I’ll take you to get some real food. I’m a bit peckish myself, to be honest.”

Later Blake eyed the scruffy man across the wooden table that had seen better days. “My father was in the army, you know,” Blake said.

They were at a small dive not far from the murder scene. They both had their tea, Blake had ordered a bacon roll, and Payton was busy devouring a full plate of bangers and mash.

“He didn’t come home.”

(more…)

[Note from Steve: When I posted this short story in 2017, I already feared the turn to fascism I saw going on in the US under the leadership of Donald J. Trump—the US was looking a lot like 1930’s Germany! I meant the story as a warning then, and it’s even more of a warning now—the date might even have to be adjusted down a bit because the US looks even more like 1930s Germany; Trump wasn’t convicted! Although their leader is hopefully gone for good, and independent of those impeachment trial results, there are still too many fascists masquerading as conservatives who are calling for civil war and the execution of government leaders, accusing the latter of treason. The attack on the Capitol is only one manifestation of a political plague that’s just as dangerous as the viral one—maybe even more so, because we have vaccines for the latter. Democracy is fragile. Like a delicate flower, it must be protected.]

2035

Copyright 2017, Steven M. Moore

Regional Governor Ricardo Sandoval kept one eye on the protests in the NADA capital of Atlanta as he answered his videophone, the red one he generally kept under lock and key. It needed a thumbprint and voiced password.

His counterpart, Regional Governor Desmonda Bailey, appeared on the screen.

“Yeah, I’m watching. NADA’s propaganda machine is whipping them into a frenzy. I’m more worried about the massing of troops on our borders. Our only recourse might be the battlefield nukes.”

“A last recourse, but I agree,” said Bailey. “Our small forces would be run over by those fanatics.”

“At least NADA’s generals have two fronts to divide their forces, but you’re at a geographical disadvantage, Desmonda. They can roll across the Adirondack chain a lot easier than the Sierras and our other western mountains. Maybe the sanctions weren’t such a good idea.”

“Nonsense. Their Great Leader started paying attention when we voted them in. They were a logical first step for trying to make him come to his senses. I don’t know what our next steps should be, but I’m not about to let him and his hordes overrun our Region.”

“I’m with you on that. But my security team warns that they might take out our satcom. We have to be prepared to act unilaterally unless we can agree on something now.”

“Let’s define some plans, old friend. My people warn me this could escalate fast.”

***

The two leaders worked for an hour and a half, coming up with plans that both the Eastern and Western legislatures would pass given the emergency. They worked from scenarios already prepared and studied, originating in the collaborative defense departments.

When they finished, Sandoval told his aid to call for his limo. The trip to the capital was walkable, but the limo was used to keep his security detail happy.

During the trip, which took more time loading and unloading of security personnel on each end than travel time, he went through some historical antecedents he might include in his speech.

Things had gone to hell fast beginning in 2017. That contentious election for president had unleashed pent-up hatreds that had smoldered for years, even decades. Perhaps inevitable, he thought. Reasoned discourse went the way of the dinosaurs.

One thing led to another. The country had already been divided between the East and West Coasts and the rest of the country, the so-called red and blue states, except in that election some blue ones had turned red and then became purple as they oscillated back and forth in future elections creating tremendous instability. People no longer wanted to discuss their politics and dedicated all their energies to hating the opposition. Eventually the Eastern and Western Civil Rights Regions were formed to reflect and protect the East and West Coast views while the rest of the country became the North American Democratic Alliance, or NADA, the use of the word “Democratic” being a déjà vu with the official name of East Germany used so many decades earlier.

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[Note from Steve: In the collection Sleuthing, British-Style, I introduced DI Clarke and DS Blake in three short stories as a homage to British-style mysteries. While this short didn’t make it to novel status (as the British coppers might have wanted, and I suggested might eventually happen one day), or the self-imposed editorial deadline for that collection (as a test case for Draft2Digital), you might find it equally entertaining. The first four chapters are found on the past four Fridays in this blog—or see the “Friday Fiction” archive.]

Mr. Gualchmai

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Five

The search for Lee Hayley bore no immediate fruit. The man had been hiding in plain sight as the appraiser, Sam Whiting, but after leaving Clarke with a terrible bashed head and headache, the focus on her assailant turned up nothing. Caine had touched base with the bank manager again; Blake had revisited the reporter. Others had also gone through other futile motions, including asking all ports and ferries to check departures to Europe or Ireland, made easier now with BREXIT requiring more complete immigration and customs procedures.

Clarke seemed knackered; they all were. Blake knew she was angry for letting Hayley scarper. She sent everyone home so they could start early in the morning. Everyone figured the manhunt would have to cover all the island as well as Northern Ireland.

“I’m off early too,” said Sally, stopping at Blake’s desk. “Want to lend me your wonderful rubbish tip pretending to be a car, or will you drive me? I got a call from Pops. He’s bored, so I thought I’d fix whip up a home-style meal for us. Turns out my irascible mother hasn’t been much of a cook lately.”

Blake was beginning to regret offering Sally’s father a stay in his flat to save the price of a hotel. He took his keys out of his pocket and tossed them to her.

“I’m out of here too in a moment. Tomorrow’s going to be a day from hell.”

He soon slid into the passenger seat as she let the car warm up a bit. He said to Sally, “What are you cooking for your men?”

She smiled. “It shall be a surprise.”

***

Owen slid one picture over to Sally. “I know this man.”

Blake glanced at Sally and then back at her father. “He’s a person of interest in the case.”

Owen had wanted to get a feel for police work, so after a fine dinner and against his better judgment, Blake had given the old man a summary of their current case after obtaining a promise to keep everything a secret. Sally had flashed a smile worth gold to the detective, so he’d known she was more than happy with that decision. Or, it might be because her SOCOs had done little work for the case, so she was curious. Clarke would never know about his lapse, and it was a part of the conversation where Blake could contribute something.

Owen took the picture again and cleaned his glasses. “On second thought, I might be wrong. I thought he’d be my old war chum Hayley for a moment.”

“Lee Hayley?” Blake said.

“Yes. How’d you know his name is Lee?”

Blake ignored the question. “This man can’t be your old war buddy. He’s not that much older than I am. He must be Lee Hayley, Junior.”

“Could be. Looks like Lee when we were in the army, though. But I haven’t seen old Lee in ages.”

“Did your old friend live around here?” Sally said.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. In Southington. He grew up there and inherited the family abode.”

Blake nodded. He’d never been to the little village just south of Riversford, but he knew about it. Their substation served it and many others, although most had at least one local and very bored constable. He reached for the phone as he winked at Sally.

“I think I now know where Hayley Junior is hiding out,” he told Clarke.

***

The prodigal son had returned home. The address Owen had provided belonged to someone else now. Were they held hostage? Or had Hayley committed one or two more murders?

“This can’t turn out well,” Blake said to Clarke as he watched the SCO19 get ready.

“He must know we’re out here,” Clarke said. “Why doesn’t he answer the phone?”

Surveillance of the little cottage in Southington had confirmed Lee Hayley was in the house. They didn’t know if he was armed, but he certainly was dangerous. Besides the alleged arson and murder of Charles Morton and his family and the attack against Clarke, he had shanked a prisoner while in jail. That charge had been dropped because all witnesses recanted on their statements about what they’d seen. Hayley had led a life of often violent crime after being in and out of foster homes. Clarke had called in the firepower as a consequence.

“Maybe we should try to talk him out of there,” Clarke said. “In spite of his crimes, I feel a bit sorry for the bastard.”

Blake decided to ignore the double meaning of that word, knowing that there was a third: No one had wanted Lee Hayley, Junior, after his mother passed on, not even his real father. Foster parents all too often took children in to collect government stipends. The son had returned to a home he’d never known.

“I’m telling the troops to move in.”

Clarke raised her arm. Blake grabbed it.

“Wait! I have an idea. There’s someone Hayley might have heard of. Sally’s father.”

“Does Hayley Junior even know him?”

“Hayley Junior might not even have met Hayley Senior, but his mother probably talked about him.”

“Maybe not fondly.”

“Point taken. But it might be worth a try. And she might have mentioned the father’s old war chum.”

“Okay. Sally might not like our involving her father in a standoff.”

“He’ll be safe.”

It took Sally about twenty minutes to arrive with Owen. Blake explained the situation. After their discussion about policing, Owen was keen to try to get Hayley to surrender. Clarke showed him how to use the megaphone.

“Lee Hayley, Junior. This is Owen Gualchmai. You’ve never met me, but your real daddy and me were army chums. Maybe your mum Alice mentioned me. Your father was a good friend o’ mine. I don’t want to see his son die. Believe me, he wouldn’t want that either. Nor your mum. But if you don’t surrender, that’s a definite possibility. You killed three people with that fire, and all your half-brother did was name you as his heir. He felt bad that Ralph Morton sent you and your mother away. He missed his mother; he missed you. It’s time to make amends, Lee. You don’t want to die tonight.”

Owen looked at Blake and shrugged. Blake nodded and Sally patted him on the shoulder.

“Didn’t hurt to try,” said Clarke. She raised her had again to send in the SCO19.

“Wait!” Sally said.

Lee Hayley came out of the house, hands held high. With the harsh police spotlights, Blake could see tears streaming down his face. For once, someone had recognized him as a person.

***

“Do cases always turn out like this?” Owen asked at the pub where Clarke’s group was celebrating yet another successful case.

“This one better than most,” Clarke said. “Lee Hayley will undergo a complete psych evaluation. It should have been done years ago. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an invitation for a late dinner.”

“That’s a first,” Sally said.

“She sounds very sexy with that contralto voice,” Caine said. “Anyone know who’s doing the inviting?”

Blake shrugged, wondering if Caine had a thing for his boss, or just wanted to know more about her and her group. That was always difficult at first. Group members knew things about other group members; they also knew when not to talk about them.

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