“Friday Fiction” Series: Mr. Gualchmai, Chapter Five…
[Note from Steve: In the collection Sleuthing, British-Style, I introduced DI Clarke and DS Blake in three short stories as a homage to British-style mysteries. While this short didn’t make it to novel status (as the British coppers might have wanted, and I suggested might eventually happen one day), or the self-imposed editorial deadline for that collection (as a test case for Draft2Digital), you might find it equally entertaining. The first four chapters are found on the past four Fridays in this blog—or see the “Friday Fiction” archive.]
Mr. Gualchmai
Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore
Chapter Five
The search for Lee Hayley bore no immediate fruit. The man had been hiding in plain sight as the appraiser, Sam Whiting, but after leaving Clarke with a terrible bashed head and headache, the focus on her assailant turned up nothing. Caine had touched base with the bank manager again; Blake had revisited the reporter. Others had also gone through other futile motions, including asking all ports and ferries to check departures to Europe or Ireland, made easier now with BREXIT requiring more complete immigration and customs procedures.
Clarke seemed knackered; they all were. Blake knew she was angry for letting Hayley scarper. She sent everyone home so they could start early in the morning. Everyone figured the manhunt would have to cover all the island as well as Northern Ireland.
“I’m off early too,” said Sally, stopping at Blake’s desk. “Want to lend me your wonderful rubbish tip pretending to be a car, or will you drive me? I got a call from Pops. He’s bored, so I thought I’d fix whip up a home-style meal for us. Turns out my irascible mother hasn’t been much of a cook lately.”
Blake was beginning to regret offering Sally’s father a stay in his flat to save the price of a hotel. He took his keys out of his pocket and tossed them to her.
“I’m out of here too in a moment. Tomorrow’s going to be a day from hell.”
He soon slid into the passenger seat as she let the car warm up a bit. He said to Sally, “What are you cooking for your men?”
She smiled. “It shall be a surprise.”
***
Owen slid one picture over to Sally. “I know this man.”
Blake glanced at Sally and then back at her father. “He’s a person of interest in the case.”
Owen had wanted to get a feel for police work, so after a fine dinner and against his better judgment, Blake had given the old man a summary of their current case after obtaining a promise to keep everything a secret. Sally had flashed a smile worth gold to the detective, so he’d known she was more than happy with that decision. Or, it might be because her SOCOs had done little work for the case, so she was curious. Clarke would never know about his lapse, and it was a part of the conversation where Blake could contribute something.
Owen took the picture again and cleaned his glasses. “On second thought, I might be wrong. I thought he’d be my old war chum Hayley for a moment.”
“Lee Hayley?” Blake said.
“Yes. How’d you know his name is Lee?”
Blake ignored the question. “This man can’t be your old war buddy. He’s not that much older than I am. He must be Lee Hayley, Junior.”
“Could be. Looks like Lee when we were in the army, though. But I haven’t seen old Lee in ages.”
“Did your old friend live around here?” Sally said.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. In Southington. He grew up there and inherited the family abode.”
Blake nodded. He’d never been to the little village just south of Riversford, but he knew about it. Their substation served it and many others, although most had at least one local and very bored constable. He reached for the phone as he winked at Sally.
“I think I now know where Hayley Junior is hiding out,” he told Clarke.
***
The prodigal son had returned home. The address Owen had provided belonged to someone else now. Were they held hostage? Or had Hayley committed one or two more murders?
“This can’t turn out well,” Blake said to Clarke as he watched the SCO19 get ready.
“He must know we’re out here,” Clarke said. “Why doesn’t he answer the phone?”
Surveillance of the little cottage in Southington had confirmed Lee Hayley was in the house. They didn’t know if he was armed, but he certainly was dangerous. Besides the alleged arson and murder of Charles Morton and his family and the attack against Clarke, he had shanked a prisoner while in jail. That charge had been dropped because all witnesses recanted on their statements about what they’d seen. Hayley had led a life of often violent crime after being in and out of foster homes. Clarke had called in the firepower as a consequence.
“Maybe we should try to talk him out of there,” Clarke said. “In spite of his crimes, I feel a bit sorry for the bastard.”
Blake decided to ignore the double meaning of that word, knowing that there was a third: No one had wanted Lee Hayley, Junior, after his mother passed on, not even his real father. Foster parents all too often took children in to collect government stipends. The son had returned to a home he’d never known.
“I’m telling the troops to move in.”
Clarke raised her arm. Blake grabbed it.
“Wait! I have an idea. There’s someone Hayley might have heard of. Sally’s father.”
“Does Hayley Junior even know him?”
“Hayley Junior might not even have met Hayley Senior, but his mother probably talked about him.”
“Maybe not fondly.”
“Point taken. But it might be worth a try. And she might have mentioned the father’s old war chum.”
“Okay. Sally might not like our involving her father in a standoff.”
“He’ll be safe.”
It took Sally about twenty minutes to arrive with Owen. Blake explained the situation. After their discussion about policing, Owen was keen to try to get Hayley to surrender. Clarke showed him how to use the megaphone.
“Lee Hayley, Junior. This is Owen Gualchmai. You’ve never met me, but your real daddy and me were army chums. Maybe your mum Alice mentioned me. Your father was a good friend o’ mine. I don’t want to see his son die. Believe me, he wouldn’t want that either. Nor your mum. But if you don’t surrender, that’s a definite possibility. You killed three people with that fire, and all your half-brother did was name you as his heir. He felt bad that Ralph Morton sent you and your mother away. He missed his mother; he missed you. It’s time to make amends, Lee. You don’t want to die tonight.”
Owen looked at Blake and shrugged. Blake nodded and Sally patted him on the shoulder.
“Didn’t hurt to try,” said Clarke. She raised her had again to send in the SCO19.
“Wait!” Sally said.
Lee Hayley came out of the house, hands held high. With the harsh police spotlights, Blake could see tears streaming down his face. For once, someone had recognized him as a person.
***
“Do cases always turn out like this?” Owen asked at the pub where Clarke’s group was celebrating yet another successful case.
“This one better than most,” Clarke said. “Lee Hayley will undergo a complete psych evaluation. It should have been done years ago. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an invitation for a late dinner.”
“That’s a first,” Sally said.
“She sounds very sexy with that contralto voice,” Caine said. “Anyone know who’s doing the inviting?”
Blake shrugged, wondering if Caine had a thing for his boss, or just wanted to know more about her and her group. That was always difficult at first. Group members knew things about other group members; they also knew when not to talk about them.
“Probably just a friend. She knows a few academics in Oxford.”
“Nerdy just like you, then,” Caine said with a smile.
Blake needed to change the subject. He already had received enough ribbing about his piano lessons with the statuesque piano professor.
“Owen, I want to compliment you on that fine speech. When you finished, I didn’t know if it would resonate with Lee, but it was a damn good one. You should run for MP in your district.”
“We live in an agricultural zone. I already represent a lot of hardworking farm people who need a reliable hardware store. And I like London even less than you do, young man.” He raised his glass. “Here’s to policing. You people do your very best to keep people safe.” He sipped his ale and then eyed Blake over the brim of the glass. “But don’t ever take my daughter to a hostage standoff again. That’s a terrible place for a date!”
Blake’s face turned red with all the laughter, but Sally was blushing as well.
***
Patricia Clarke was a bit nervous as she entered the fancy restaurant just outside the Christ Church campus in Oxford. For one thing, she felt underdressed. For another, it was a far cry from the pub she had just left, where rozzers and media flocked to throw down drinks or eat a greasy but delicious meal. Finally, the pumps she’d hidden in the car and put on in the restaurant’s valet car-park, much to the amusement of the attendant, were pinching her feet because the last time she’d worn them was for a date in a place just like this.
She didn’t need the hostess. She spotted him while walking in. The perfect table. Of course. A window table on the dais looking out over the Oxford skyline at the jumble of university architecture of campuses dating from the Middle Ages to the present.
“I’m with that gentleman,” she said to the hostess.
George Benford saw her approaching and stood. He removed her new coat after giving her a kiss on the cheek. After taking seats and pouring her some wine, he said, “Rough day?”
“You’d never guess. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“Shall we continue the discussion we had in my office, now that I have the advantage of being on neutral gound?” He said that with a sly smile and a wink.
She liked the invitation to dinner, his mischievous smile, and twinkling eyes. Handsome old fox! “I’d rather not,” she said. “First, I already apologized on the phone for my comment. You have to realize that most of my experience with ‘legal representation’ is in the interrogation room and at Crown trials.” He smiled again and nodded. “And let’s keep everything on a Patty-George basis. I’d rather not think about our professions either. Just food and wine and a pleasant evening.”
He raised his glass. “And maybe some interesting times in the future?”
She smiled, raising her glass too. “That’s a possibility.”
***
Comments are always welcome.
Death on the Danube. A murder occurs as newly wed Esther Brookstone, ex-Scotland Yard inspector in the Art and Antiques Division and ex-MI6 Cold War spy, and new husband Bastiann van Coevorden, Interpol agent, set out on their riverboat honeymoon. Because the Danube is international waters, Bastiann handles the investigation. Who is the victim really? If someone on the boat is the assassin, who? As they float down the river, carrying the original crime scene with them, other events occur, including two more murders. Why? Available in ebook and print formats from Amazon, and in ebook formats from Smashwords and all its affiliated retailers (iBooks, B&N, Kobo, etc.) and library and lending services (Scribd, Overdrive, Gardners, etc.). This new addition to the “Esther Brookstone Art Detective” Series will keep you guessing and provide hours of interesting reading. (The first two books in the series are also available at the sites mentioned, but all can be read independently.)
In libris libertas!
