“Friday Fiction” Series: Living on the Third Rail, Chapters Six through Eight…
[Note from Steve: Because this is yet another British-style mystery story, the metaphor of the title here refers to London’s Underground aka the Tube. Trains there, unlike NYC’s, actually have four rails with two live ones. The positive third rail is still outside the rails the car wheels ride on and has the higher voltage, which is twice the fourth with negative voltage, nestled between the two regular train ones. Now there’s a factoid that might stump any Jeopardy contestant!]
Living on the Third Rail
Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore
Chapter Six
Before Bobby left with Wolfgang for the castle the next morning, he had another quick breakfast with Elaine.
“You look knackered, Inspector.”
“I guess I wasn’t quite ready to have an important case right at the start of my DI work. Got to get into it some time, I suppose, but it’s been exhausting, and we’re just in early days. How’s it going with you?”
Bobby didn’t want to give her any of the gory details. He eyed her and managed a smile, feeding off her concern. It was nice to have someone worried about him. This woman is special, but is she nursing me or interested in something more?
He knew veterans often had relationship issues. Especially in his current line of work, he had to fight depression. A plod often sees the worst of humanity. And seeing Maria’s body on that exam table was more than depressing. Wolfgang was right. No one deserved to have their life ended that way, especially a vibrant, young woman. And I was just at the prelim! He thought about sending someone else for the full autopsy.
“You look fresh, not knackered. In fact, you look good, Elaine.” Should I say that to a woman I hardly know? Due to Elaine’s ER schedule, there was no way to call the previous dinner a serious date. “But I bet the ER is stressful.”
“Sometimes it’s just routine, which I’m used to handling. It’s when we receive cases all at once time that it becomes hectic. That usually involves motorway accidents with multiple collisions, but we had a mass shooting once. And then there was Covid, of course.”
They talked about the pandemic a bit, and then he told her about their upcoming trip to a castle. He couldn’t give her many details, and he was surprised by her comments.
“I always wanted to live in a castle when I was a little girl. To be married to a prince like Diana was.”
“That didn’t turn out so well for her, although he still got to be king.”
“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I have no use for the whole lot. They’re leeches who cut ribbons and such to give people their fixes for their addictions to pomp and circumstance, and they call that work.”
Those are strong words, Bobby thought, but she had said them with a smile. Of course, they echoed his sentiments.
“I never think about royalty much,” he said to continue with a more neutral and less personal discussion. “They’re like Big Ben or Trafalgar Square, you know: Just sad monuments to the golden age of the once mighty British Empire. I think most people just take them for granted like London’s air pollution. I certainly do.”
“In a sense, we both work for them.”
He laughed. “I doubt our yearly salaries even come close to what they spend in a month. And I’d wager the government spent more keeping our troops in Afghanistan than what all the royals combined spend.”
“Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t like a wee raise now and then,” she said with a laugh.
“No I suspect we’re like civil servants most everywhere, lost in the lower middle class. I’m just happy to have a job right now, along with that bit of promotion that came with it.”
“So tell me about the German bloke.”
“He’s from Interpol and will be a consultant for the case for reasons I don’t want to get into. He’s headquartered in Lyon, though, so I suspect he speaks French as well as German and English.”
“Ooh-la-la,” she said. “Prussian or Bavarian?”
Bobby shrugged. How do you tell? “He’s from Munich.”
“Most likely Bavarian then. That would make him more interesting. I’ve been looking for someone to teach me the polka.”
He raised an eyebrow. “I went out and celebrated my last night at Ramstein airbase trying to dance polkas and Viennese waltzes while drunk. I gave it my all, but I think I need many more lessons. A rather heavyset fraulein flung me around the dance floor. Hardly dancing, I dare say.”
She thought a moment. “Maybe we can take lessons together.”
“I’d like that, but fair warning to your toes if I step on them.”
“I want to learn some Latin dances too.”
“Are you planning a new career?”
“Heavens no! There’s just a certain Met inspector I’d like to dance with.”
He smiled. “Now I’m jealous. Who is he?”
“You, idiot! Who knows? You might also be my Prince Charming. Just call me Cinders.”
He thought she might be mixing up her fairy tales, but he liked her comments.
***
“I heard you were at Ramstein,” Wolfgang said as they walked towards the castle’s entrance.
“I didn’t get to see much of the local color,” Bobby said, showing his prosthetic.
“I noticed that. Oh well, you can always take a holiday in Germany. Munich’s the best place to go, unless you want to float down the Danube and visit Austria as well.”
“And I heard you’re from there.” Bobby smiled at Wolfgang. “Bundespolizei.”
“Guilty as charged. And I like to promote my home town.”
“To the chore at hand. How did these people get this castle again? They’re not British toffs.”
“They bought it, I suppose. We don’t have that information. Aren’t your aristocrats getting so poor with the tax hikes that they’re selling off everything?”
“Some have been doing that all along, long before Brexit and Covid. It takes quite a dosh to maintain a place like this.” Bobby studied the front door. “I think we have to pull this ring. Careful. Big Ben-like chimes might sound.”
Bobby was right. The door chimes sounded from deep within the castle; for the sound to reach them through the solid wooden door, they had to be loud. He waited a bit and then pulled the chain again. He was about to pull it a third time when a tall old man in a butler uniform appeared.
“DI Robert Sherman of Scotland Yard and Interpol agent Wolfgang Lange.” They showed him their credentials. “We have an appointment with Mr. and Mrs. Girardi.”
“Of course. Follow me, gentlemen.”
They were led down a long hall and then into a sitting room that looked like something from Buckingham Palace.
“You may take seats over by the fireplace. Shall I bring you tea service?”
“That would be splendid,” Wolfgang said with a smile.
The tea service arrived before Mr. and Mrs. Girardi: Four delicate China cups; a large matching teapot, with its sugar bowl and milk pitcher; and a plate of cakes.
“Don’t get used to it,” Bobby told Wolfgang in a whisper.
“They’re not English toffs, but they live like ones,” Wolfgang said.
Bobby thought it was prudent to wait for their hosts, who soon appeared. After introductions and taking seats, the aunt became mother. She seemed to glide upon a magic cloud of perfume as she performed the ritual, giving everyone tea and then offering the cakes. With the tea, she pointed to the sugar cubes and milk; when it was his turn, Bobby declined the milk and signaled for one cube. She winked at him and smiled.
Is she flirting, implying the one cube was perfect because I’m already so sweet? Or is it all just my imagination? Maybe the years spent in Afghanistan with mostly sweaty, unwashed men had affected how he related to women and didn’t permit a close but socially acceptable connection. He thought of Elaine.
But Bobby connected with the pair of Swiss ex-pats. They seemed like nice people, but a police detective had to be more objective. Niceness could always just be a charade. Let’s see if it is.
Mr. Girardi, who looked like one of the gnome-bankers from the Harry Potter movies, albeit more pleasant, spoke in his soft, gravelly voice.
“And what brings you to Pembroke Castle, gentlemen? Our humble abode isn’t the most famous one, of course, but we welcome you all the same.”
Mrs. Girardi winked at them and smiled again. She was much younger than her husband but deferred to him. She knows her place, Bobby thought.
“An urgent family matter, perhaps. Have you spoken to your niece Maria recently?”
“Is she the missing person your sergeant mentioned when she rang?” Bobby nodded. “She’s hardly missing then. She’s still living in Italy, I presume. Milan, to be precise.”
Bobby decided to shake up the bloke a bit. Sometimes shock value was warranted. “I regret that I must correct that presumption. We found Maria Girardi’s body in a London alleyway.”
“Oh my Lord!” Mrs. Girardi covered her mouth after uttering her first words.
“That is terrible news,” said Mr. Girardi. He looked genuinely sad. “Have you informed her parents?”
“No. We understand Maria and they were estranged.” Wolfgang was studying the pair’s reactions as much as Bobby. Did he too doubt their concern was authentic?
Mr. Girardi’s answer neither confirmed nor denied that. Instead he said, “Maria was always a bit headstrong. She is—was an independent young lady, to say the least.”
“Did you know Interpol has been looking for her as one of five suspects who stole jewels in Italy?” Bobby said. “Milan, to be precise.”
The husband looked at his wife and then back at Wolfgang. “Lord no! When she was here, she mentioned nothing about that.”
“So…” Bobby said, “she was here.”
The old Swiss-Italian realized his mistake. “We only try to protect her, Inspector. She wouldn’t give us any details, but she was frightened and wanted to hide here for a while. I thought it had something to do with my brother.”
“Did she bring any jewels with her?” Wolfgang said.
“Heavens no! She only had a valise. She had so few clothes, in fact, that Anna lent her some of hers, because Maria’s the same size.”
“So she enjoyed a good relationship with you folks?” Bobby said.
The old man flashed a sad smile. “Much better than the one with her parents. Anna and Marie are—were—very close, and I was her favorite uncle.”
“Did she stay here long?”
“I can refer to my diary for the exact dates, but it was about a fortnight.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“No, but from the information you have provided, she apparently headed for London.”
“Can we see the room she used here in the castle?”
“Anna can show it to you, but the help has cleaned it since then. It’s our only functional guest room for now. We’re still in the process of furnishing the castle.”
Wolfgang waved his hand to indicate the room they were in. “This looks like the original furniture.”
“It was refurbished when Queen Victoria was on the throne. Most main floor furnishings date from that time. Upstairs is still incomplete and more modern furnishings will be placed there. Anna?”
“Follow me, gentlemen.”
***
Maria’s room looked like one from a modern luxury hotel, all prim and proper but modern and sterile and without any charm.
“The furniture here isn’t in the same class of that in the sitting room,” Wolfgang said.
Anna, Maria’s aunt, had left them alone in the room at their insistence.
“I doubt we’ll find anything here,” Bobby said. “I can still smell the cleaning fluids.”
“I know what you’re thinking: This would be a good place to hide the jewels. The castle, that is, not this room, and its grounds. It would take us weeks to search the building and the grounds.”
“Would she have felt safe walking around the grounds?”
“I wouldn’t if I were her, especially if those four others knew she had some relatives living here.”
“Do you think they were watching the castle? If so, why not just storm it, take everyone captive, and torture her here for the location of the jewels?” Bobby thought a moment. “They would have committed more murders. Maybe both the aunt and uncle and some of the staff, in addition to Maria.” Bobby was eyeing the ceiling vents. He pulled a chair under one and climbed on it to inspect it. “I need a screwdriver. I doubt the staff cleaned these vents.”
In the third vent’s duct, Bobby found something wrapped in a plastic garbage bag. He brought it down and dumped the contents on the bed mattress. They put on the latex gloves.
There was a dosh that he handed to Wolfgang, who began counting the bills. There were also two passports, a Swiss one for Maria and an Italian one for a baby.
“There’s a bit more than five thousand pounds here,” Wolfgang said. “Maybe she visited a pawnbroker?”
“For only some of the jewels probably,” Bobby said, “if the Italians estimate of the jewels’ value is correct.”
“Indeed. Who’s the child?”
“Lorenzo Girardi. Was Maria married? I didn’t see any reference to that.”
Wolfgang paused to think. Without a computer, he couldn’t access the Interpol database. He shrugged. “We would have discovered a civil marriage, and priests are supposed to register the religious ones. Or she just had a baby without being married. It happens, and if the baby’s passport shows the baby had her family name, that’s an indication.”
“And a priest might have done Maria a little favor and not registered a wedding. It happens. For a priest, God’s law trumps civil law. Look how many people are divorced yet still married according to the Church.” Bobby tapped the Italian passport. “The question is: Where is the child?”
“With the father? Maybe one of the thieves? I guess we have a real missing person now.”
Bobby nodded. One way to put it.
Chapter Seven
Wolfgang drove back too—it was his hire-car, after all—so he played Handel, Vaughan Williams, and Elgar, all British music, although Handel had been a German ex-pat. Bobby didn’t mind. The low-volume orchestral music allowed him to concentrate on messages to and from his team.
“At my request, Liz is setting up a search of child service facilities,” he said at one point.
“You’re thinking she turned the boy over to them, official-like?”
“Yeah, I know, it’s a stretch. They’re also searching for four men with a child. Someone might think that’s unusual.”
“And unlikely if they split the heist four ways and took off for parts unknown.”
“One man with a child then,” Bobby said. “I’ll tell Chaim. We know who those four are. Finding one of them will be enough if we get him to grass on the others.”
“Considering the small dosh Maria had, she must have hidden the rest of the jewels. If not at that damn Dracula’s castle, then where?”
Bobby was distracted by a traffic accident they were speeding by, but he answered soon enough. “I’d wager she has an account in London somewhere. We’ll either find the remainder of the money obtained by fencing the jewels there, or the rest of the jewels, in some rental box.”
Wolfgang laughed. “I wonder how many banks in the Greater London area rent boxes.”
“You’re just a pessimist. I’m sure Interpol knows which Italian banks have branches in London. Or the Met can find out.”
“Um. That narrows it down. I’ll get on it at a rest stop. I’m only a bit knackered, but I’m peckish too.”
Bobby smiled at the German’s use of the British vernacular. Wolfgang adapts quickly.
***
While Wolfgang had a sandwich and crisps with his coffee at the rest stop, Bobby only had coffee, so by the time they entered the metropolitan area, he needed sustenance. He knew they would be in for a long night at the station, so he had the Interpol agent drop him at the NHS hospital.
His timing was a bit off, but Elaine had her coffee break, so they targeted the diner again. After they had their mugs sorted and Bobby had wolfed down half a cucumber and bacon sandwich, it occurred to him to consult with her about the child.
“I need to ask you something.”
She eyed him. “I thought you were worried about something. Met related or Afghanistan related.”
He remembered promising to avoid the latter, but the former? He had to try.
“The first. In a way. What’s the best way to approach child service organizations?”
“You probably have people at your station if not on your team who can answer that. A Family Liaison Officer, for example, should be able to help. Do you have a name for the child?”
He’d never mentioned the child. She was perceptive. He also hadn’t thought about FLOs. They were generally used to comfort a victim’s family. But Elaine was correct. A victim might be a single or divorced parent, in which case child services would have to be contacted.
“We have the child’s name, but it’s unlikely the person turning him over to child services would use it, correct?”
“Yes, that’s right. Especially if the person holding the child was a criminal. I’m guessing here, but is your murder victim the child’s mother? Domestic squabble?”
“No, not exactly. I want to catch the woman’s murderers. One might be the father.”
“He’d kill the mother of his child? God, some people!”
“Sorry. I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Children have enough problems growing up in our modern world, but a little one losing his mum is terrible. I’d like to have some children someday, but when I hear about things like this, I wonder if that’s advisable.”
“An interesting confession. Children would be hard with either of our careers.” He saw her surprised glance. “Just saying.”
She sighed. “I was an only child. With my prince dream came the idea that it would be nice to have a large brood. Both were only childhood fantasies.”
He smiled. “And here I thought I could be your prince.”
“Oh, get past that, please. You’re making me seem like a reader of romance novels. I mostly read sci-fi.”
“Sometimes they’re the same thing,” he said, flashing another smile. He thought of Mrs. Lawton. Maybe people who read escapist literature were only trying to escape from their hard lives for a time.
Chapter Eight
Finding Maria’s bank and account number was easy. Some legal maneuvers were necessary to allow Interpol and the Yard to access the corresponding rent box. Bobby assigned that task to Wolfgang, and they soon had the remaining jewels. That ended the case for the Interpol agent, but not for Bobby and his team. They still had to solve a murder committed on their patch.
But now they knew that the four jewelry thieves were probably still in England. But where? And where was the child? They couldn’t close the case without finding them all. The search was still on.
Clearly Maria hadn’t wanted to leave the child in Italy. Bobby tried to think like she must have thought. Would I take my baby, flee the father, and try to start a new life in the UK? Visiting her aunt and uncle made sense as a first step towards reaching that goal, but the father and/or the other three might eventually make the connection and go after her at the castle. Where had she gone with the child? And was the child now with the father? Maybe the father and his child were also dead now, killed by the other three?
They soon had a break that reversed that question somewhat. A bobby on patrol had stopped for a fag and found three bodies in a rubbish tip not far from the alleyway where they’d found Maria’s body. They’d been wrapped in large industrial refuse bags and dumped there. The bags had broken open when other refuse had been added.
“I’m just guessing by the head wounds,” Doc Jepson said, “that some other bloke stuck a gun barrel in these fellows’ mouths and fired.”
The three thieves’ limbs were still bound with plastic cinch-straps. Flies were swarming all over them, but especially on their faces, which had been near the bag openings. Bobby couldn’t decide if the odors came from the tip or the decaying bodies.
“They’ve been here for a while,” he said. “Since the young woman was killed?”
“Maybe. I’ll know better—”
“—when you do the autopsies. I saw that CSI bloke figure out TOD once using fly maggots.”
“I’m not a damn entomologist,” Jepson said. “I’ll pin it down closely enough for you. Be patient. There’s a lot to process here.”
They now had four murders to solve. Bobby curled a finger at Chaim and Liz. “Back to the station. We’ll have a status meeting.”
***
Jack Hardcastle sat in on the meeting, unobtrusively in the back until the end. Does he want to hear how we’ll proceed? Or is he grading me in some way? Bobby knew the case was a good test of whether DCI Hardcastle’s decision to keep him at Heatherhill Station had been a good one.
Bobby waited for Liz to pin the photos of the three new victims next to Maria’s on the crime board. “Slight change of tactics,” he said when Liz sat and he took the helm. “Let’s assume the remaining one from the quartet, Fritz Jaeger, international jewel thief, is still in the London area somewhere and he has their son with him. Wolfgang Lange and Interpol will be looking for him in the EU, in Holland in particular, and with the exception of Italy, where the police will refocus on Jaeger. We won’t worry about the rest of Europe for the time being.”
“Why would he stay in London?” Liz said. “He has his son.”
“Considering what I just said, I’ll assume you mean the rest of the UK. Someone will have to liaison with authorities around the country. Any volunteers?” Several team members raised their hands; Bobby picked a DC, feeling that would give him some valuable experience and free up Liz and Chaim. “Now we need several people to work on CCTV records. Volunteers?” No one liked that job, so Bobby volunteered two other constables with Chaim leading the effort. “Liz and I will liaison with other Met stations in Greater London. Jaeger has to appear somewhere sometime, if only to get food. Assuming he’s still here, of course.”
“Does he have any relatives in the UK?” Liz said.
“Wolfgang says no, but they could be wrong. We should check that. Did Wolfgang give us a decent photo of the bloke, Liz?”
“He did. I’ll get it up on the board after the meeting. Everyone should memorize his face.”
Hardcastle stood. “I can help smooth over ruffled feathers as you liaison with other stations. Let me know if you have problems.”
“Time to get to work, people,” Bobby said. “The manhunt is on.”
“And hopefully baby hunt too,” Liz said. “Too bad we don’t have a photo of the little one.”
“He’s bound to look like a baby,” Chaim said.
Everyone laughed. That broke the tension a little.
***
As the hours rolled by, Bobby became more and more worried. Had Fritz Jaeger somehow fled the country? Why would he without the jewels? He wouldn’t kill the baby, would he? He’d leave little Lorenzo somewhere public. The child was his. He’d have to have some feelings for the baby boy, wouldn’t he? Lorenzo hadn’t been found with Maria, after all, or the three other jewel thieves.
Bobby had lost count of the number of coffees he’d gulped down by the time eleven p.m. showed on the clock. He sent the rest of the team home to get some rest. Hardcastle stopped by his desk on the way out.
“You’re not going to do much good here worrying. Follow your own advice. Go home and get some rest.”
He smiled at his DCI. “Can’t. Lady who runs the boarding house hasn’t given me a key yet. She closes up the place at ten-thirty.”
“I see. I don’t know what to tell you then. Stop drinking the canteen’s swill and use your desk chair for a bed. You’ll have only the night duty sergeant for company.”
“I’ve closed the door to our area here. He plays Queen all night.”
“Good taste, I’d say, but only the ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ might let you sleep. On the way out, I’ll tell him you’re still here and not to wake you.”
After Hardcastle left, Bobby went and stared at the crime board so he could go over the whole case. Sometime later, he fell asleep in one of the chairs there.
He didn’t stir until the cleaners came in at seven the next morning, soon followed by Chaim Cohen.
***
Comments are always welcome. (Follow the rules listed on the “Join the Conversation” web page.)
Enjoy a holiday gift from me! Defanging the Red Dragon, A Brookstone-Castilblanco Holiday Adventure, is now available as a free PDF download—see the “Free Stuff & Contests” web page. The four sleuths—Chen, Castilblanco, Brookstone, and van Coevorden—become embroiled in a spy case occurring in the US and UK at holiday time. You can download your copy and resend it to family and friends, or just tell them to download it as you did. I can’t send all my readers a holiday card, but I can give you a new novel as a holiday gift! More free fiction for you. I wish you happy holidays and a prosperous 2022!
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
