“Friday Fiction” Series: Poetic Justice, Chapters One through Three…
[Note from Steve: I’m having way too much fun writing these British-style mysteries to stop now. This one combines the amateur-detective theme of Irish writer Declan O’Hara paired with the professional-detective theme of Scotland Yard’s DS Margaret Bent. Enjoy.]
Poetic Justice
Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore
Chapter One
The constable was amiable and chatty, but Declan only half-listened to the Cockney’s rambling discourse after the fellow had taken his statement, especially when the woman approached him. Her grim look matched her business-like attire, a modest power suit one might see in any of London’s corporate towers, places Declan avoided if at all possible.
He’d watched her directing two others, a man and woman and presumably lower-ranked detectives like DC Ezra Harris. She apparently gave the stereotypically nondescript plods their marching orders to go knock on doors around the neighborhood. But what stereotype works for coppers? His father had looked nondescript once he’d been promoted beyond patrol. Some, especially those who worked undercover, might think that was a plus.
He’d expected one bobby max to arrive and felt a bit guilty and pleased Scotland Yard had sent a whole team. Maybe because the neighborhood was a bit chichi? Except for his favorite pub, he didn’t fancy it. He certainly couldn’t afford to live there.
He’d felt duty-bound to call 9-9-9. He was standing outside the pub, sorting a few lines of poetry in his head and wishing for a fag, when an older woman came out of a building—he thought number forty-nine, although it had no number and was only sandwiched between forty-seven and fifty-one, possibly indicating even a more posh residence. A sleek black car drove up beside her, and a bloke jumped out to grab her and wrestle her into the backseat. As it drove off, he memorized the plate number and called the police.
After DS Margaret Bent flashed her warrant card, that was exactly what he told her, mostly repeating his statement the Cockney had already taken.
She had tight brown curls and expressive brown eyes. She wore her hair short and had little or no makeup. A short face made her eyes seem even bigger, and they seemed to bore into him as if she were trying to read his mind. Good luck in there, copper. It’s an overgrown jungle.
The loose power suit and sensible pumps showed she was a practical woman, valuing comfort over flair. Declan found her simplicity attractive. Other men might not even turn their heads. Maybe that’s what she wants?
He had met plods like her when his father was more active in the Garda. They had to be serious and aggressive in the man’s world of traditional policing. None of that said anything about their competence, but his previous experience told him that was more likely than not because of that competition.
“How much did you have to drink, Mr. O’Hara?”
“Only a pint to accompany dinner. That’s all I allow myself on a weeknight.”
“I’ll check that with the publican, you know.”
He shrugged. What’s your problem, lady? “Be my guest. His name’s Leonard. If he likes you, you get to call him Leo.”
“And why were you standing out here on the kerb?”
“Imagining I’d stepped out for a fag.”
“Imagining?” She eyed the butts strewn along the gutter.
The area, in spite of being ritzy, apparently hadn’t seen streetsweepers lately. Or they couldn’t keep up with pub clientele, something that must irk those living in the upscale residences.
“I’ve been clean for almost eight months. I get the craving after meals, so I imagine having one. I hate nicotine gum and the patch, so I went cold.” He smiled. “Makes sense if you think about it, especially if you’re a smoker.”
“I’m not.”
“Lucky you.”
“No others out here having a fag, imaginary or otherwise?”
“Just me. Early hours. The Golden Goose gets more lively later. At least that’s true on the weekends.”
“I’ll need you to come in and make a statement tomorrow. One last question: What’s your profession, Mr. O’Hara?”
“I’m a writer.”
“And your employer?”
“I’m freelance. Mostly assignments for several ‘zines. I also do a bit of poetry and prose on the side, which doesn’t pay well.”
One of the canvassing constables approached them.
“We only got a few responses to our knocks, Guv, including forty-nine,” he said. “Most tenants are probably still at work. Those who answered didn’t see anything. No woman. No car.”
“Any comments, Mr. O’Hara?”
“I guess I’m your only witness, Margaret.”
She frowned. “It’s Sergeant Bent, if you don’t mind. We’ll take your formal statement tomorrow.”
Declan watched her walk off with her constables, including that Cockney master of blather and twaddle, who looked back over his shoulder and winked at Declan.
He interpreted that as a silent declaration: Imagine working for this demanding woman. Declan agreed, but he also thought that here was a woman who hid her passion for life to make a go of it in a male-dominated world. He doubted the Met differed much from the Garda in that respect.
He headed to the tube station to make his way home. He had an article to edit and a poem to finish. The latter was still in his thoughts; the article, not so much. Editing was the worst part of writing, if he excluded the marketing of his novels.
***
The next morning, after submitting the article about the new border clashes between Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland, a problem the last PM had created with Brexit—he’d almost passed on that assignment, figuring he might become pigeon-holed as the Irish freelancer—Declan made his way to the nearest police station. DS Bent’s card had provided the address, but she hadn’t fixed a time. He was hoping to avoid her.
Should I call that a business card? He had none, considering them old-fashioned, but he supposed the Met was run like a business, the profit motive being the number of crimes solved; and it was probably more rigid than most corporations. He didn’t see Bent, which suited him just fine. The same chatty constable gave him forms to fill out and sign and then sat him down in what looked like an interrogation room, an unwelcoming space with some AV equipment in the corner that reminded him of why he’d considered himself lucky to avoid rozzers until then.
He easily filled out the forms. It was the same information he’d given the Cockney for the most part, and he’d practiced the night before because, after finishing the edits on his article and writing out his poem, he’d written a fictional scene based on what he saw, thinking it might be of use someday in a new novel. He was already thinking about changing the main character, a male, to a kick-arse female detective like Bent, ice cold and far too serious.
She showed up just as he finished to review the forms, making him think someone had been spying on him. The Cockney? He glanced at the dark glass at the end of the room. One-way mirror?
She sat opposite him, hair a bit awry with curls like springs, and dressed in a similar suit, light green this time, not light purple. He preferred the light green but would resist telling her so.
After reading his statement, she frowned at him.
“Still sticking to your story, Mr. O’Hara? Sure it isn’t taken from one of your novels?”
“Please call me Declan. I did jot it down after the fact. I collect snippets like that—descriptions of scenes, ideas for characters, plot and theme ideas, and so forth. I’m happy to hear that you researched me. I can give you a free ebook of your choice in return for an honest review.”
“I never choose my reading material by looking at reviews. Most on Amazon are useless—nothing but a few lines of no consequence. And I don’t have much time to read.”
“I suppose looking for that promotion to DI takes a lot of extra work.” She frowned again. He knew he’d hit a nerve. “Sorry. That came out wrong.” He shrugged. “I know what I saw, DS Bent. Maybe witnesses don’t come forward because rozzers don’t listen to them? If that poor woman shows up dead, it’s on Scotland Yard.”
She scanned the papers again. “Mercedes motorcar? And you also remembered the plate number?”
“Your chatty colleague took all that down at the scene. I have a good memory.” He tapped his head. “Sometimes I wish I could defrag my hard disk. Lots of useless stuff in there now.”
She now smiled. “You do have a way with words, Mr. O’Hara. Let me see if DC Harris checked on that plate. Bear with me for a moment.” She soon returned. “Maybe a bit of support for your story: That Nazi car was stolen. Often happens when criminals need a fast and reliable ride.”
“I’m surprised your team didn’t find anything out in forty-nine. Perhaps they should now check again to see if any tenants are missing?”
She nodded. “Perhaps. That could go a long way to identify the victim as well.” She half-stood and offered to shake his hand. “Thank you for being a concerned citizen.”
He stood, turned to leave, but stopped at the door, turning back to her. “Could you let me know if you get anywhere on the case?”
“Perhaps,” she said again. “Don’t press your luck. At the moment, you’re more than a witness; you’re a person-of-interest and possibly a suspect.” She thought a moment while she smoothed down her jacket. “I’m the SIO on this case for now, and others, because we’re a bit shorthanded. We have to live through our budget’s ups and downs. My DI is more a DCI, and I’m more a DI, temporarily. We’re very busy, to say the least. Please have some patience. Crime is up since Covid. It’s like the criminals hunkered down and are just now waking up, anxious to make up for lost time. Why am I telling you this? Because most people don’t understand our plight.”
He nodded. “I’m not most people. My father was active in the Garda in County Donegal.”
She gathered up the papers. “How did you become a writer?”
“My mother’s the artistic one. Poet and musician mainly, in the tradition of Turlough O’Carolan, I like to think, though not nearly as famous. She played the harp, of course.”
“An interesting pair, your parents. Are they still alive?”
“Yes, but a bit doddering. My father’s still a bit active helping in the training of new recruits for the Garda, and my mother’s still writing a bit, but arthritis has affected her harp playing. And there you’ve got the rest of my background you didn’t find on the internet.”
“I had to research you to see if you’re a reliable witness. Most people aren’t, you know. I have no interest in your personal life beyond that. ‘The bombers no longer maim and kill, but Eire still feels the blight, a victim of the English still, and all the crown’s might.’ Have a good day, Mr. O’Hara.”
He walked out of the room smiling. No interest? That verse was from his first published poem that appeared in a magazine the year before he’d graduated from Trinity College. His views had changed somewhat. He’d decided the English were just as much victims of their past as the Irish; that was a more national, or even international, perspective. It’s called maturity, he thought.
Chapter Two
DC Ezra Harris eyed his temporary boss. “Cor blimey, Guv, that Irish plonker seems like a live one. I read your report. Fancies himself a Flann O’Brien, I dare say.”
“That’s a pen name, Ezra. You’re talking about Brian O’Nolan. And Declan O’Hara hasn’t written any plays. Do you have something for me on the case? We need something, or we’re going to drop it.”
“Old woman in forty-nine says her neighbor on the fourth is missing. A Rebecca Gilby.”
“Missing since when?”
“Two weeks ago. Maybe she came home and left again?”
“It’s possible. Let’s you and I take a look, shall we?”
One day Bent hoped they could forego personal interventions and have videos in every room in every residence of the UK. It would save her a lot of time. Of course, more personnel would be better. She still smiled at the first thought while holding on as Harris turned a corner. Putting those thoughts into words would most certainly cause protests from the far-left. She could see them now, calling it Orwellian. As if Orwell could imagine all the videocams already posted around London. 1984 had passed them by; 2084 might be terribly different. Winnie had fought the fascists last century in WWII in the UK as well as abroad. She didn’t really want a police state in the twenty-first century.
4C at forty-nine was one of three flats on that floor. She took out her tools and knelt to examine the lock. Anyone complaining would have to face her usual and generally accepted argument of probable cause—there might be a body in there, after all. And Ezra never had a problem with it. Latex gloves and Teflon booties were donned before entering Gilby’s flat.
It was small and neat but didn’t look lived in recently. Three suitcases in the entry hall added to that perception and somewhat confirmed Ezra’s suspicion. Their tags had the initials R.G. and Ms. Rebeca Gilby was on several items of mail that had been left unopened.
“Something spooked her.” She spotted more evidence for that. She picked up the moby from the floor. “Bag.” Ezra offered a plastic bag and sealed it after she dropped the mobile into it. “We’ll need Archimedes to do his thing.” He was one of their techno-wizards who usually could break into any electronic device.
As she wandered around the apartment, Bent noted that Gilby was a reader. Four books were stacked on the table by a recliner, and several small bookcases were full of popular fiction. She noticed one of the books was a thriller by none other than Declan O’Hara. She didn’t believe in coincidences but thought that certainly was one.
They found nothing else of note beyond the suitcases, mail, and mobile. Ezra bagged the mail too, and they left. By the time they arrived at the station, she’d forgotten about the book.
***
Just after lunch, Archimedes approached her. Bent had developed a profile of Gilby, who was a PA for a barrister of some repute, not all his fame good. He’d saved too many criminals a lot of prison time. His only good quality was that he looked a bit like a white-haired Clark Gabel. How she loved those old movies!
Alexis “Archimedes” Danielopoulos’s tight brown curls nearly matched hers, but his blue eyes seemed to twinkle as if he were remembering some good jokes. His hours were chaotic, but he’d been in house when she and Ezra had returned.
“Any luck?”
“It’s never luck, Maggie.” He handed several pages of computer printout to her. “One text message stood out. Someone with the handle Popcorn sent ‘Run!’ to her. Apparently, she didn’t do it fast enough?”
“Can you find out who Popcorn is?”
“Already started the process, but it might take a while. None of my shortcuts worked.”
She didn’t want to know what those shortcuts were, figuring they were akin to her lockpicks. “Work on that then…in your spare time.”
“I don’t have any spare time. I gave this priority because it was your request. You kept my secret quiet until I came out.”
“‘Twas none of my business. I never thought much of that feckin’ law anyway. No wonder the one that overturned it is nicknamed ‘Turing’s Law.'”
Archimedes smiled. “Off the dais, Maggie. It’s no longer necessary.”
“Thank God. Let me know immediately if you find anything else.” She waved the printout. “I’ll scan this just in case.”
After doing her scan and finding nothing important besides what Archimedes had noted, she added a profile of Gilby’s workplace and the partners that ran the legal practice to the case file on HOLMES, the UK-wide database used by the police.
“Chased down where Gilby was,” Ezra told her a few minutes later. “‘Aruba, Jamaica, oh I want to take ya…’.”
“So, which one? Aruba or Jamaica?”
“Jamaica. Has a darkie for a boyfriend, the old gal.”
Bent stared at Ezra. Many of her countrymen were closet racists. Is Harris one? He had to know about Archimedes. She decided to ignore what he’d said for now. “Do you have a name?”
“Ron Babbitt. Has form. One internet handle is ‘Babbitt the Rabbit.’ Reformed thief turned private investigator. Has handled some investigations for the barristers who employ Gilby.”
“Probably where they met. Maybe not pertinent, but we should talk to him.”
***
Babbitt’s studio was a tip, especially compared to Gilby’s neat flat, but it looked similar in that a valise and suitcase had been dropped in the entrance way. Dirty dishes were in the sink and the trash bin reeked with its overflow of takeout bags, boxes, and liquor bottles. Maggie figured the man hadn’t cleaned up before the trip and hadn’t time to do so when he returned. Did he scarper too, only to be caught? Was Gilby’s text message from him? There had been no pic associated, but was he Popcorn in addition to Babbitt the Rabbit?
The search of his place took a bit longer because it was more of a mess, but the only thing she found of consequence was a large framed picture of Gilby on his nightstand, which was an inverted cardboard box. But Ezra discovered some war souvenirs on the top shelf of the man’s closet. They included a medal.
“Bloke served in Afghanistan,” Ezra said. “I wonder if he knew Prince Harry.”
“Bring the box from the closet and bag this picture. I’m going to use the picture to show O’Hara to see if Gilby is the same woman he saw.”
“That would give us a good start. Shall I assume we’re looking for two missing persons now? How romantic!”
Maggie nodded. “As long as it’s neither a romantic comedy nor tragedy.” Once in the corridor outside the small flat, she took out her mobile and called Declan. He’d finally be of some use in the investigation.
She rang off with a smile on her face. Ezra had heard her brief words.
“You look like the cat who ate the canary,” he said.
“Our Irish bard just invited me for drinks…I think. Now I’ll have to find out who Turlough O’Carolan is, damn it.”
“Good luck with that. Those Celts have all kinds of folk heroes. Most of them think St. Paddy’s Irish when he was really a Briton.”
“So you’re a history professor now?”
“No, Guv, but my uncle served in Northern Ireland during the Troubles. Looking like we’re heading in that direction again, I dare say. Johnson really knew how to create havoc.”
“Running a country probably isn’t easy.”
“There’s that.”
Chapter Three
“Sorry. I can only make it later. I have a reading at an art gallery at two. Can I meet you for drinks after work?”
There was a silence. Declan waited. Is Bent thinking about it? No respect for the life I lead? Did she think that my suggestion would be too much like having a date? Finally: “Sure, why not? Pick a place.”
He gave her that information, the Aviary in Finsbury Square on the tenth floor of the Malcolm Hotel, a place more upscale than The Golden Goose; a restaurant, in fact, with a good bar and a marvelous view. He’d have to take some money out of the ATM.
As he headed for lunch, he was smiling. Maybe DS Bent wasn’t above mixing a little pleasure with work. He wasn’t trying to impress her, but he’d just been paid the full contract sum for his article about Irish border skirmishes and wanted to celebrate a bit. Always one to stay focused, though, his thoughts turned to his poetry reading.
He had little hope for any success at The Masters Gallery. The owner had paired him with a better-known bloke, a Brazilian painter named Ricardo Silva. Declan didn’t know much about him but thought his own “act” would just be a lead-in for Silva’s main attraction. Or the owner thought the artist might stumble a bit and wanted to ensure her afternoon function wasn’t a complete loss. She’d probably spent some money on it and time organizing it. At least he’d have free canapes and white wine, although he didn’t fancy wine very much.
He hadn’t yet visited the gallery, so he didn’t know anything about the event’s setup either, except he would go first. He left the Tube in what he thought was the general area in central London, entered a coffee bar, and asked the barista for directions after ordering. He’d been led astray far too much in London with street closures and obscure, old neighborhoods.
:”A bit difficult to find, mate. I only know because the woman who owns it is more famous than her gallery.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“A while back, she helped thwart a terrorist attack, she did. BBC made a documentary about it. She didn’t appear in it, though. Always wondered if she ever got money from Bristol. Wouldn’t put it past them to stiff her.”
“Bristol?”
“Where they made the doc-u. I saw it on streaming after the fact. Good show. One for us against them ISIS bastards.”
“I see.”
Declan followed the barista’s doubtful directions, but he was spot on. He looked at the facade of the gallery. Red brick with windows in white trim, a building like most on the block. But the window was wide enough for him to take in the arrangement. Things had been moved around to create space for an audience and a small dais had been placed in front for the two speakers. Off to the side were two buffet tables. It’ll do, he thought.
***
Esther Brookstone, The Master Gallery’s owner, turned out to be a gracious host, introducing her guests to Declan and Ricardo as the trio circulated among the small crowd. Two women from Esther’s crew were busy handing out canapes and pouring white wine for those in attendance.
Declan had met Ricardo first, in another coffee bar near the gallery, as it turned out. The painter had been killing some time there, not wanting to be too early for his appointment with Esther. The Brazilian told Declan he leased a large loft in a seedy part of Manchester, although his abstract paintings turned out to be smaller than the large canvases one might expect would require such a large work studio. About all Declan could appreciate were the chaotic patterns and color choices. Not even the titles made sense to him.
Ricardo didn’t much care for London, but Esther had helped him secure a solid reputation in the competitive art world. He was thin like Declan but taller. Brookstone wasn’t short either, both were taller than Declan, and she was of an indeterminate age. Declan thought Ricardo’s tattooed swarthiness and punk hairstyle would fit in nicely at a Manchester United vs. Manchester City football match, whereas Brookstone must have been a stunner as a young woman and looked the part of a patron of the arts.
She reminded him even now of an older version DS Bent, what the copper might become, at least as the pleasant and affable yet serious woman the detective could be if she put her mind to it. He was surprised to learn that Esther had also worked for Scotland Yard and her husband for Interpol.
Neither Esther nor Ricardo had any problem with Declan’s brogue, even on the telephone, but there were enough Irish ex-pats in the UK, especially in London, that made that no surprise. He remembered Bent’s Cockney DC. The UK was full of people with strong dialects and accents, and London, at least before Brexit and Covid, had been a cosmopolitan capital, certainly more so than Dublin.
Ricardo winked at him occasionally as they made the rounds and bonded more as artists who had to tolerate toffs with their lorry-loads of money. Declan thought there were one or two critics among the guests too, but he thought that they were there more for Ricardo than for him. And there might be a few reporters as well.
***
From atop the little dais, Declan surveyed the expectant faces after Brookstone’s formal introduction. With his prodigious memory, he would have no problem remembering his own words. He began, concentrating more on varying his volume and making dramatic pauses, turning simple poems into powerful drama. He explained his motivation for writing them, especially those about Irish history and landscapes, but the audience seemed more mesmerized with some poems about northern England and southern Scotland, Cumbria and Argyllshire, to be specific. In these, the landscapes became main characters talking of the regions’ history. When he finished and made a bow, there was silence…and then enthusiastic applause.
Declan hadn’t been sure what the Brazilian would talk about, but Ricardo had equal success. He spoke about his childhood in Rio’s favelas and how he’d fled across the Atlantic to England to be free of the oppressive Brazilian autocracy. He then “explained” several of his paintings on display that he said were celebrations of life, love, and freedom. Declan had a hard time understanding what Ricardo meant, but he saw several old wrinklies with their eyes closed, nodding in agreement with his new friend’s strongly accented words as if he were a traveling preacher at a religious revival event.
Declan also didn’t understand the audience’s response, but it rewarded Ricardo with thunderous applause. The Irishman supposed the Brazilian didn’t understand the response to Declan’s presentation either. They had to at least give the audience credit for appreciating two very different art forms, painting and poetry. Brookstone had engineered a coup with the gallery’s afternoon event.
As if to prove that, audience members bought several paintings, some not even Ricardo’s, and copies of the book containing Declan’s poems, including the ones he’d orally presented; some even bought both, although the price differential meant more books were sold than paintings. The buyers of the paintings afterward arranged for the delivery of their purchases that were far too large to carry; the book buyers carried their purchases out with them. Esther then organized her help to start on cleanup and reorganizing the gallery space and accompanied Declan and Ricardo to the rear of the gallery.
“Ricardo knows I’m not keen on hosting these events,” she said to Declan, “but I think this one was quite the success. It’s also a first, I dare say: Combining poetry with paintings. My husband Bastiann’s idea, by the way. What do you think? Was this worthwhile?”
“It’s not just about selling a few books or paintings,” Declan said with a smile. “It’s about branding. Making ourselves and what we do as creatives known to the public.”
“I agree,” Ricardo said. “There were two reporters in the audience.”
“I saw them. And critics.” Esther beamed at them. “That quartet could throw the gallery a few kind words our way too, hopefully positive, but even the negative catches people’s attention.”
“Going negative would seem to belie the audience’s reaction,” Declan said. “The applause was more than just polite.”
“They at least appreciated the novelty of the situation,” Ricardo said. “Good show, mate. You were a tough act to follow. I’ll admit I didn’t understand much, but English is my second language.”
“Mine too,” Declan said. “My first was Gaelic. We lived in County Donegal.”
***
Comments are always welcome.
“The Last Humans” series. I wrote the first novel in this series, The Last Humans, before the real Covid pandemic. The plague here is bioengineered by an American enemy and is delivered to the West Coast of the US via missile. But we all know from the experiences with those California wildfires that small particles, here the virus, can be carried across the US and to the rest of the world by prevailing winds. Penny Castro, forensic diver for the LA County Sheriff’s department, dives to recover a corpse and emerges to find apocalyptic desolation. The first novel is her story of survival. The second, The Last Humans: A New Dawn, is the story of a US-sponsored revenge mission that goes terribly wrong for Penny. (Fair warning: The idiotic Amazon bots—or the idiots who program them?—confused these two novels, so I’d recommend buying the two books elsewhere. Barnes & Noble, for example, where the links take you, kept them straight. The first novel was a bestseller from Black Opal Books at B&N for a bit, in fact.)
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
