“Friday Fiction” Series: Mr. Gualchmai, Chapter Four…
[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?
A frisson then went down her spine as she turned her attention back to Samuel Whiting, the appraiser. She looked at the photos again. Samuel Whiting was Lee Hayley!
“I guess that will be all for now, Mr. Whiting,” she said, standing when he hung up the desk phone. “Sorry to take your time. We’ll be in contact if we need anything else.”
He eyed her. “But we haven’t even had tea yet, inspector. What’s the hurry?”
He came around the desk, grabbed one wrist, and took her mobile from her. She tensed, ready to parry any further attack.
He scrolled and found the last call on the mobile. “Not a bad picture, considering. I think you need more than tea, madam.”
She partially blocked the blow; otherwise it would have killed her, especially because she was sitting down and he was standing. As she fell out of the chair, sank to her knees at the tall man’s feet, and unconsciousness came, she figured her time was up.
***
But Clarke regained consciousness, still in the squalid office. Her mobile was at her side. She rolled over, her head pounding, and called the station. The desk sergeant connected her with Blake.
“General alert for the appraiser Samuel Whiting, aka Lee Hayley.”
“What! Where are you? Did you get the pictures I sent?”
“Absolutely. That’s how I knew the appraiser was Lee. He then discovered I knew. I’m lucky he didn’t kill me.”
“I’m sending an ambulance.”
“I won’t say no. Make sure the EMTs have aspirin. I’ll take a little nap meantime.”
Blake showed up with the ambulance. Sally and her SOCOs soon followed. By that time Clarke was resting in the desk chair in the appraiser’s office.
“Let’s talk,” she said to Blake.
Her sergeant raised his eyebrow as an unspoken question the EMT. “No concussion, but she’ll have a bad bruise. She’s lucky. He was aiming to crush her head, looks like.”
“Wasn’t a straight shot, and I deflected the blow. I didn’t react soon enough to take him down and arrest him, though.”
“We’ll get him,” Blake said. He now eyed here. “You have theories?”
“Lee Hayley was out for revenge. He gave his half-brother a bad appraisal so he couldn’t get his loan. Lee then learned somehow that he would inherit Charles’s building if he killed the whole family.”
“Could be that desire for revenge developed all the way back in childhood. With that family history, it’s no wonder the whole family wasn’t crazy.”
“Maybe they were.” She thought a moment. “For now, he’s escaped. We have to figure out where he might hide. Where are those fecking aspirins, Jordie?”
***
Comments are always welcome.
Sleuthing, British-Style. Like those old Agatha Christie novels? Love those DIs, DSs, pathologists, and SOCOs? Readers of this blog know that I’ve spent a lot of time reading during the COVID pandemic. In particular, I binge-read British-style mysteries, sometimes entire series, all in an effort to preserve my sanity. Here I tried writing some, three mystery cases in the British style. A list of others I’ve read can be found in this little collection that introduces DI Patricia Clarke and DS Logan Blake. Available wherever quality ebooks are sold (e.g. on Amazon but not on Smashwords, a competing aggregator to Draft2Digital–I’m experimenting in his chaotic publishing environment!).
In libris libertas!
