[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!

[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.

(more…)