“Friday Fiction” Series: Mr. Gualchmai, Chapter Two…
[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.
“I’d better get on to seeing that judge.” She thought a moment. “Chaps like you don’t fool me for long, Mr. Benford. Barristers often make the argument that they represent even criminals because everyone has a right to legal representation. The truth is, you do it for the money.” She paused to let that sink in. “I shall return with said warrant after letting the judge know you like to waste his time too.” She turned to leave.
“Wait!” he said with a laugh.
She turned to him. His eyes were twinkling. Had she passed some kind of test?
“Let’s compromise, inspector. You don’t really need a copy of the will. You want to know who the heirs are.”
She remained standing. “And the conditions for their inheritance.”
He nodded. Wouldn’t that be the same thing as getting a copy?
“Just between you and your investigating team and me, I’ll tell you after you sit down and join me for tea. I apologize for the two lumps, by the way, but if you have some cakes as well, will the extra one matter?”
She sat down and smiled. “I accept your compromise for now, and your apology. And I shall enjoy the tea. It’s Earl Grey, my favorite.”
***
“Got it!” Blake cried. He then looked around to see his nearby colleagues staring and smiling at him. “I know who the brother is!”
Several constables gathered round to look at the old article from the local Riversford rag. Blake had found it after Clarke called from the barrister’s to say the heir was Charles Morton’s mysterious brother, now known to be a half-brother.
The article and the few that followed related the story of how Charles’s father, Ralph Morton, had kicked his wife and newborn out of the family’s home. The follow-up stories dealt mostly with the bitter divorce proceedings. The ex would keep the baby who wasn’t Ralph’s. Charles would remain with his father.
“We need to find out if Alice Morton is still living,” Blake said. “She could lead us to the victim’s half-brother.”
“Who cares?” said a DC.
“As sole heir to Charles Morton’s estate, he’s now our prime suspect for the arson-murder.”
“So’s the mother for being left out of the will,” said another constable.
“I know this reporter,” said yet another. “Retired, but a friend of my father. Should I call him?”
“Worth a try,” said Blake. “I’m going to try to find Alice Morton.”
He did…in a way. The mother had died of cancer, and her three-year-old child had entered the foster care system. There the trail went cold.
“James, did you connect with the reporter?”
“I did,” said the DC. “He said stop by any time.”
“Then grab your coat. We’ll pay him a visit.”
***
Robert Markey’s home was in the next village along the motorway towards the Cotswolds. A plump woman answered the door. The two detectives flashed their IDs.
“Mrs. Markey?” said Blake.
“Mr. Markey’s housekeeper,” she said with a smile. “He’ll be happy to have visitors, even if you are rozzers.”
They were ushered into a small study with a large window overlooking a well-tended garden. A large man in a wheelchair was staring out the window.
“Mr. Markey?” DC Caine said.
The wheelchair spun around. “James. So good to see you. It’s like seeing your father again. Welcome.”
“I’ll bring some tea and scones,” said the housekeeper with a smile.
The detectives took seats after she left.
“This getting old is a terrible thing,” Markey said. “The PTs do little for me except cause me more pain. How have you been, young man? Married yet?”
“Working on it, sir. This is DS Logan Blake, one of my bosses.”
“Let’s just say we’re colleagues,” said Blake, offering his hand to shake.
Markey’s grip was strong. “I detect a bit of a London accent. Not Cockney, but a Londoner nonetheless. What brings you out to Riversford, sergeant?”
“I came here for some peace and quiet not too long ago.”
“And he’s on his fourth murder case already,” Caine said.
“Brought some London crime with you too, I dare say. But you fellows want to learn about Alice Morton.” He leaned back in his wheelchair and sighed. “A terrible family breakup. There was a lot of gossip about her even before Ralph kicked her and her baby out of the house. He was always an insanely jealous man, unfortunately with reason, although one could hardly blame Alice for looking for comfort elsewhere, but her getting preggers with another man’s baby was the last straw.”
At that point, tea arrived. When the discussion continued, Blake didn’t say much because Markey continued to focus on Caine. Blake understood and didn’t mind. The little cakes accompanying the tea were excellent. He just sipped and munched while listening and observing. The reporter had organized his thoughts well.
In a pause, Caine said, “Did Alice and the baby stay in the area?”
“Moved more west where housing’s less expensive. I lost track of them until I saw her obit. Always wondered what happened to the bastard child.”
“Whose name was?” Caine said.
“Lee Hayley.” Blake nodded. That matched Clarke’s intel. “That’s a junior, but maybe not officially. Can’t say whether his real father ever claimed him, but Alice didn’t want to saddle the boy with the Morton name. Can’t blame her for that either.”
“Did you know her well?”
Markey considered the question a bit longer than normal. “Not through the interviews. She’d changed a lot by then. We were friends in school. Ralph Morton was a friend too. I was even invited to a few holiday dinners before the family imploded.”
“Did Charles like the baby?”
“A lot more than Ralph did, that’s for certain. And Chick never forgave his father for throwing his mother out.” Markey made a sad moue. “The poor lad used to come running here crying after Ralph beat him. The whole incident turned Ralph into an ogre.”
“I suppose that might explain why Charles named Lee as his sole heir,” Blake said. “After his wife, as the state requires, I presume.”
“I guess he didn’t know what had become of Lee,” Markey said.
“Can you elaborate on that?” Caine said.
“Last I knew, Lee Hayley—or was it Hadley?—had found lodging as a guest of the queen.”
Caine glanced at Blake, who nodded. They would be looking there next.
***
Comments are always welcome.
Sleuthing, British-Style. 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, including entire series. A list can be found in this little collection of three stories introducing DI Patricia Clarke and DS Logan Blake, also British-style mysteries. You might also enjoy the stories as well. Available wherever quality ebooks are sold (but not Smashwords).
In libris libertas!
