[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 short story 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 this short story equally entertaining.]

Mr. Gualchmai

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Four

The appraiser’s office was what Clarke had imagined it might be: a tip playing the role of a place of business. It was on a side street in a squalid area of town; there was garbage on the street, mostly from some seedy pubs, and a few kerb-crawlers prowled even in the morning. They looked a bit worse for wear, so maybe they were strung out after a busy night, trying to remember where they might find a place to rest their weary head. She decided it was a place where Logan Blake might feel at home—it was as bad as anywhere in the capital, maybe worse if coppers avoided the place.

She was glad she wore trainers because the stairs up to the office didn’t seem well-maintained. There were three offices at the top. She knocked on the door with the name Samuel Whiting.

“Door’s open,” said a gruff voice.

She entered and flashed her warrant card. The badly dressed man gestured to a chair; she sat and found it unbalanced. Intentional?

The single office wasn’t welcoming to visitors. The furniture seemed secondhand and the threadbare rug was sprinkled with indeterminate splotches, while the cot in the corner told her that the renter slept there sometimes. Maybe always? A door at the foot of the cot was ajar, so she could see a half-loo that looked like a rest stop’s on some remote road in His Majesty’s kingdom.

“I usually don’t see anyone here. My work is out and about Riversford and the surrounding villages. Sometimes as far as the Cotswolds.”

“I understand,” she said. “Gives you some fresh air, at least.” She saw the frown. Good, he got the message: this office is a rubbish tip! Was that why he panned Morton’s building? “Mr. Whiting, I’m here to talk about your appraisal of Charles Morton’s building, like I said on the phone.”

“Yeah, well, did you see it before the fire? Morton’s flat was okay, but he hadn’t kept up the others. Can’t blame him, I suppose, what with two or three students in each destroying them. It’s a good thing the whole thing burned. I’d calculated that if the bank ever had to foreclose, they’d spend even more money fixing the place up for sale, thereby losing a lot of money when added to the loan amount. That’s my job, inspector: securing reasonable loans.”

“The land is prime real estate itself. Did you consider that?”

“You should stick to being a copper. I’m the appraiser here.”

The phone rang to interrupt her rebuttal. Clarke wasn’t surprised to see it was an older model, its cable probably plugged in somewhere under the desk.

“Excuse me. I have to take this. Might be a job.”

***

While the appraiser attended to his call, Clarke received one of her own from Blake, a text message containing the frontal and side shots of Lee Hayley taken when he had entered prison. Unlike some drivers’ IDs, the shots showed a clean-shaven, smiling man who probably could charm many women. Except for the eyes. They weren’t smiling. They were a cold blue. The eyes of a killer?

(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 this story 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 the short story equally entertaining. Chapters One and Two can be found on previous Friday posts.]

Mr. Gualchmai

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Three

Lee Hayley had served a jail term of six years. He was released a little over a year ago.

“Good work,” Clarke said at the next briefing session. “We need to find this Mr. Hayley. Keep pursuing that, Logan and James. I need a volunteer to accompany me. We have an appointment with a bank appraiser.” She looked at her watch. “Tomorrow morning first thing. We need a break. The rest of you should continue viewing security videos from the area around Charles Morton’s building and knocking on doors. It would help if either cameras or people spotted our arsonist. Again, tomorrow morning, first thing. We’ll hit everything fresh.”

Blake returned to his desk and texted Sally. How about some Chinese take-away?

Sounds good, she texted back. She sent an address. Pick me up in half an hour. XOXO.

Sally Gualchmai and Blake had become an item with some hesitation. He’d been a Londoner new to the Riversford area. She was Welsh but called the northlands home. She shared Patricia Clarke’s distrust of men, although Blake’s detective skills couldn’t yet determine why. The SOCO was still mostly a mystery to him, but their relationship was heating up. It was already beyond any Blake had ever had with another woman. And she even understood his love of music!

At that moment, Caine walked by and said, “Hot date? I saw you texting.”

“Szechuan,” Blake said.

“The girl or the food?” Blake frowned. “Sorry. Just me being a detective. I just wanted to say I enjoyed working with you today.”

Caine was new to Clarke’s group. Blake remembered that not long how hard it had been when he joined Riversford CID.

“Thanks. But you did most of the interview. And don’t worry. You’ll get into it soon enough.”

***

“Logan!”

Sally had gone ahead to open Blake’s flat while he unloaded what he figured was her overnight case and the take-away Chinese contained in several bags of cartons filled with assorted oriental delights. He saw a man approaching her. He put everything down, ran forward, and put himself between the threat and his girlfriend.

(more…)

[Note from Steve: In the collection Sleuthing, British-Style, I introduce DI Clarke and DS Blake in three short stories as an homage to British-style mysteries. While this story 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 the short story that continues here equally entertaining.]

Mr. Gualchmai

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter Two

Blake left his previous assignment to last. The new case was hot; he was motivated to give it a good launch.

He wasn’t the best hacker in the Riversford CID, but some competition had disappeared when DC Heath was promoted. If Blake worked at the main Oxford HQ, he probably wouldn’t have computer assignments, but it had been something new in his career to try at the smaller substation in Riversford. It turned out he didn’t have to try too hard this time.

Among the victim’s belongings was a wallet with an ATM card. That led to the man’s bank. He called to make an appointment with the manager.

Too many take-away dinners with Sally and lack of exercise beyond hot sex with the Welsh SOCO, justifying the time savings with the take-aways, had made him a bit lethargic lately, so he decided to walk from the substation to the bank.

Upon entering, he would have preferred a longer chin wag with the head teller, a tall redhead with sparkling blue eyes, who reminded him a bit of his piano teacher and attracted more clients than the others, but she told him where to find the manager. He sat in a tiny back office. When Blake entered, the man was shuffling papers.

After formal introductions complementing their earlier telephone conversation, the manager said, “I’ve been examining Chick’s accounts. Mr. Morton’s, that is.”

“I’d like a copy of those papers, please, but can you provide a summary. Anything unusual?”

“Yes. The denial of a loan I tried to initiate for him. I feel the bank’s appraiser greatly undervalued his building. Chick offered it as collateral. I just assumed it had been approved because I didn’t hear from Chick. It should have been more than enough considering property values here downtown. That’s the case throughout the entire Thames River Valley, of course, even in the small villages.”

“Perhaps I should talk to that appraiser.” Blake thought a moment. “You called Charles Morton Chick. Did you know him well?”

The bank manager smiled. “Drinking buddies now, old school buddies earlier.”

“Was he an upbeat guy? I mean, did he have a positive outlook on life?”

“More so than most people, I suspect, despite some investments that turned sour. My wife and I often socialized with the Mortons. Some good times there.”

Blake nodded. The manager, like many men, was trying to hide his sense of loss and not quite succeeding.

“So he wouldn’t be the suicidal type?”

“Chick? No way! He could be a bit dark at times, especially with some of his causes, lamenting government inaction, but he was usually upbeat. Just went with the flow, you know.”

Blake stood and handed his card to the manager. “Let me know if you think of any more information. I thank you for your time.” He scooped up the papers. “And for these.”

As he walked out of the bank, he was thinking that sometimes an old-fashioned walk accomplished much more than pounding a computer keyboard.

***

“I’m afraid Mr. Benford doesn’t have time to see you right now, inspector.”

Barrister Benford’s PA had more tits than brains, Clarke decided, and probably would treat the VIP’s prospective clients far better than a lowly police inspector. The well-endowed woman was just doing her job, of course, so Clarke ignored her and went around the tiny desk.

“Police business, so I’m sure he’ll find the time.”

She walked down a hall and found a door with George Benford, Esq. on the door. She threw open the door and walked into the posh office, forcing a well-dressed man to put down the local paper’s late afternoon edition.

“Inspector Patricia Clarke, Riversford Substation,” she said, flashing her warrant card once again. She took a chair in front of the desk and stared him down. His expression changed from surprise and annoyance to a sly smile.

“It would have been a pleasure to meet you in court, inspector.” He reached across the desk to offer a hand, and she leaned forward to shake it. “George Benford. What can I do for you today?” He held up a finger from one hand and punched his old-fashioned intercom with the other. “Helen, please bring in some tea and biscuits. We have to treat our guest with decorum.”

“Thank you.” Clarke was wondering about the change in demeanor, but plowed on. “I’m SIO for an investigation regarding the death of Charles Morton. I believe he’s a client of yours?”

“You found that out soon enough. Impressive.” He tapped the paper. “I was just reading about Charles and his little family. What a shame. We have had a short-term professional relationship, creating his will. Nice fellow.”

“It’s customary in these investigations to determine who might benefit from the victim’s death. I understand you drew up the will about five months ago?”

“That’s when it was registered. We’d been discussing details for a few months prior to that.”

“It could save us a lot of time if we could obtain a copy of that will to determine who his heirs are.”

“That might be the case, but I can’t. Attorney-client privilege and no official death certificate as yet make that impossible. I’m duty-bound to protect the heirs, you see.”

“Your client was murdered.” Benford blanched. “I’ll ask you to keep that quiet for now. We can formally request a copy of the will because of those circumstances. Any judge will sign that warrant.”

“Indeed. But, as you said, those official steps, required by law, I might add, will take time. You’re a law officer. I’m a barrister. We both have to follow the law, inspector.”

Clarke now realized Benford’s smile was probably a permanent feature when dealing with the public. Yes, I would like to meet you in court! She was choosing her next words when tea arrived. Before she could react, he became mother, plopped two cubes in her cup, and handed the steaming beverage to her.

“I generally do only one lump.”

He shrugged. “Believe me, inspector, you need the two. Are we finished with your business now so we can enjoy our teatime together? I’d much rather chat about the barney in Commons yesterday. The politicians are going to ruin this country!”

Clarke controlled her anger, shoved the cup back towards the barrister, and stood.

(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 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 the following short story equally entertaining.]

Mr. Gualchmai

Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore

Chapter One

DI Clarke’s search for a new winter coat had been interrupted by a domestic squabble. Constables were taking the drunken bully to arraignment and jail, his family jewels probably still aching from Clarke’s well-placed kick; his bruised and battered girlfriend had been taken to the hospital, lucky that her only serious injury was a broken arm; and their two children were under the care of a family liaison officer, pending legal proceedings to protect them.

Clarke usually went into Oxford to shop if she had the time, so it had been lucky for the woman and her children she had decided to hit the smaller local Riversford shopping district first. The DI decided to celebrate one more win against misogynist brutes by enjoying a mash up in a small coffee bar she favored. Usually replete with noisy students from the various colleges at Oxford University, even that far out from the city, the spot was quiet now. Michaelmas term was over and few students were in the area. Some faculty had also made their exodus for the lengthy holiday.

The little café, if the spot with its four little tables and three stools at a counter deserved such an appellation, sat on a narrow side street, yet the locals looked for it. It was mostly empty now, and the street also empty of traffic. It was too early for Christmas shoppers, and the gray, dreary day wouldn’t have beckoned to many shoppers at any rate. She liked to shop in those conditions, though. The denser the crowds, the more obnoxious and pushy they became.

From her small table, she was in the perfect spot to see the explosion in the building across the street from her. Flames shot out third-story windows as they first engulfed that floor. The conflagration had seemed instantaneous.

“Say, ma’am, you didn’t pay,” said the waiter as she dashed out the door.

***

“You arrived quickly,” Clarke said to DS Blake. “Aren’t you supposed to be scanning those communication records?”

Logan Blake turned a bit red. “I met Sally for lunch. We were just down the street.”

Clarke only nodded and continued to watch the flames consume the building. But the brigade soon had the fire under control and carried out three bodies. Clarke recognized the assistant fire chief watching the exodus and moved forward. Blake followed.

“What’s the story, Archie?” she asked. “Gas leak?”

She’d recognize those watery blue eyes, fat jowls, and walrus-style mustache anywhere; they belied the man’s real conditioning. Huge Archibald Watson was an intelligent man who was strong enough to carry either Clarke or Blake down a ladder on one shoulder.

“Our team is just beginning what we do after any fire, Patty. For now, this looks like an accident. Maybe a shorted electrical wire? Building’s old, but fortunately mostly empty. The victims are the building’s owner, his wife, and son.”

“Tragic,” said Blake. “The building is in bad shape. I suppose the other tenants were students. How do you know the older male is the building’s owner?”

“Recognized him. Whole family died of smoke inhalation. Only the young lad has any burns. One nearest the apartment’s door, they tell me. ‘Scuse.”

Watson moved forward to meet a tall man who had just exited the building. They conversed a bit and then the fireman returned to the two detectives.

(more…)

[Note from Steve: From time to time, I’ll post free short fiction here—short stories or novellas from A. B. Carolan or me. You can download more—see the list on my “Free Stuff & Contests” web page. This one from A. B. might be a fitting albeit humorous epitaph for 2020, or at least for the four-year aberration that was Donald J. Trump. If you don’t like that, you’re part of the problem…so please do not read this story.]

War Ruins

Copyright 2021, A. B. Carolan

“There was a conventional warfare fought on this continent, your excellency.”

K’Pak kicked aside some shards only to uncover more bones. “You mean non-nuclear? We know the natives had nuclear power. The defunct power plants are well-documented.”

“More so on other continents. Perhaps they didn’t know how to make bombs. Or didn’t want to.”

“That’s conjecture, and it would be surprising for primitives. I need facts, K’Glim. We’re scientists who deal in facts, not conjectures. The sooner you young people learn that, the better.”

“My team has prepared a briefing for you, your excellency. There are many artifacts and fossilized remains to back up our arguments. Armies were defending and attacking all through this continent, up and down the coasts mainly, but also in some central urban areas. Possibly an intense civil war took place.”

“Let’s see your evidence then. You must might have the first piece of interesting research for this planetary site.” The lead scientist spun around, his four eyes locking onto a distant figure. “What’s that?”

K’Glim followed K’Pak’s line-of-sight to where a two-eyed creature stood among some ruins staring at them. The young scientist rubbed his top two eyes, an expression of surprise.

“I believe he’s one of them, your excellency. A very young one.”

“How can that be? I thought the survey ship indicated they were extinct. We can’t colonize here if the natives are still around. And this continent is the only suitable one for that.”

Everywhere else the planet’s land masses were arid and inhospitable. The only usable land left was on this continent, with its huge river meandering right down its middle, draining most of the continent. Such a river system would be perfect for creating a self-sustainable colony.

Their ten-year task was to find anything useful for their museums, relics from yet another planet that they thought had committed suicide.

But if there were survivors?

***

K’Glim and many of the other students soon forgot about their back-breaking research; they trailed behind K’Pak and K’Glim as the young native presumably led them to his tribe. K’Glim heard some mutterings about walking into a trap, but he doubted the youngster was that devious. He had genuflected to K’Pak. Perhaps recognizing that the tall scientist was their leader? And with their firepower, no primitive tribe could stand up to them anyway.

The youngster didn’t seem to fear them, though, but when they arrived at the caves, some of his people did.

It was soon apparent that their civilization was partly intact. Of course, none of the equipment used in that civil war long ago was still around, but they had language. The tribal leaders pointed at their visitors and seemed to be having an intense discussion while the females moaned and swayed, prostrated on the ground, and even younger children eyed them with suspicion.

Soon a larger native separated from the group and approached the scientists. He was smeared in some ceremonial orange dye. He was older than the rest, so K’Pak assumed he was the tribe’s chief or shaman. His hair was dyed too and its layers were combed over each other to hide his baldness. He bowed to K’Pak and then pointed at all the scientists.

“Blue state?” he said.

K’Pak thought the native might be giving the scientific group a name, but he decided to get more personal. First rule about dealing with primitives: Establish a personal connection. He pointed to himself. “K’Pak.”

The native apparently got the idea. He pounded his chest that was covered with sparse, gray fur, belying the color of his hair. “King Donald the Sixth,” he said.

***

Comments are always welcome.

ABC sci-fi mysteries for young adults. My Irish collaborator, A. B. Carolan, whom I met when visiting Blarney Castle (I hope the irony is evident), also writes novels. The Secret Lab, The Secret of the Urns, and Mind Games all feature young girls who rise above their adversity to make a difference. They’re sci-fi because they take place in my sci-fi universe; mystery because the stories are in the grand tradition of Asimov’s sci-fi mystery novels and Heinlein’s Podkayne of Mars novella. They’re ideal reading for all young adults (they make for excellent reading and book reports for those doing remote schooling) and adults who are young at heart (or who need to find quality books for their home-schoolers to read). Available wherever fine ebooks are sold, and also available in print format. Go beyond Harry Potter to true sci-fi.

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