“Friday Fiction” Series: The Prodigal Son, Chapters Four through Six…
[As a native son of the great state of California, I can emphasize with Irwin Pound’s sentiments found in this short novella (or long short story?). My distance from my current home in Montclair to California is farther than his distance from London to the Lake District, but the yearning is probably just as strong. I hope you enjoy this story, another British-style mystery.]
The Prodigal Son
Copyright 2021, Steven M. Moore
Chapter Four
The police substation was mostly dark except for the night sergeant’s post near the entrance and Toby’s desk in one corner of the main room.
“What do you have for me, lad?” Robert said to Toby, who looked no older than sixteen or so.
“James Talent is the victim’s name. He’s from Southampton. Popped up on a shipping company’s website’s personnel list. VP for that company, as a matter of fact.”
“What was he doing here so far north?”
“Tourist. Three weeks of vacation. Must be nice to have that.”
“I wish I did,” Irwin said. “And not the hard way like I got mine the hard way. Was he with his wife?”
“Not married.” Toby winked slyly at Irwin. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t have a lady friend along.”
“My, how children grow up fast these days,” said Robert, winking at Irwin. “Didn’t happen to see him at the inn, did you?”
“No, but that’s a good idea. We should check places around here where tourists might seek lodging. He had to be staying somewhere, and we now have a name as well as a picture.”
“Lots of places and lots of tourists this time of year.” Robert thought a moment. “We’ll make a list, ordered in some logical way—maybe customer rankings, seeing that Talent was a VIP and probably loaded—and divide them up between us. I hope you don’t mind. That’s why I brought you along. I’m a bit shorthanded. Toby, go home now. Time you get your beauty sleep, lad, and I don’t want your mum to kill me.”
Toby made a face but then nodded. “Yes, sir. Good luck.” He handed a photo to Irwin. “Please autograph this, sir.”
Irwin took the photo; it was of himself, probably from his Met file.
“Not often we get a DI from London up here, sir. I want to work in the Yard.”
Robert frowned; Irwin smiled. Why not? He signed at the bottom of the photo with his biro.
“I’ll work hard to discourage you from doing that, Toby.”
“Um, off with you, lad. And thanks for all your help.”
Robert watched the lad go and then eyed Irwin. “Nice of you to do that. He’s a clever fellow. Can’t hurt to encourage him, I suppose.”
“No, sir.”
“Stop calling me sir, damn it! Let’s get to work, Irwin. We need to make some progress on this case.”
They didn’t find any lodging having James Talent as guest. Irwin suggested that the tourist might have been staying with relatives and friends. Or using an assumed name. They became busy developing two more lists.
Monday would be a busy day.
Chapter Five
Monday afternoon, DS Tim Harding hit paydirt when he received a call. He rang Mills. The two DIs had dashed off all the way to Penrith to an upscale hotel where the clerk claimed to have a client matching Talent’s description. The local television channel had featured the story on the late Sunday and Monday morning’s news.
That person-of-interest had turned out to be a traveling pharmaceuticals salesman. Robert and Irwin jumped back in the car and headed back toward the police station. Fortunately the smaller hotel corresponding to Toby’s call was in the next village over from it, more like the inn where Irwin was staying, with only eight rooms and no pub.
When they arrived, they examined the check-in log after showing their warrant cards to the woman who ran the place. She seemed nervous, but, like the first establishment, she’d at least called in her doubts about the hotel’s guest who seemed to match the picture she’d seen on the tele.
“James Smythe? Sounds like an assumed name to me,” said Robert.
Irwin winked at the woman. “She saw past the name, sir.”
Robert glared at him. Irwin knew it was for calling him “sir.” But how can I not call him that? Even though they had the same rank, Irwin respected Robert, who long ago had admitted his mistake in arresting Irwin.
“Have you seen this bloke around here recently?” Robert asked the innkeeper.
“He’s still checked in.” She thought a moment. “I haven’t seen him on my shifts for the last few days, though. There are two clerks here when I can’t be. I can ask around if you like.”
“No, that’s okay. If it’s our victim, he won’t be around.”
She blanched. “He’s the murder victim?”
Irwin figured she hadn’t followed the story behind the picture. Perhaps the tele’s newscast hadn’t transmit all the information? Young children? Trains? The inn wasn’t far from the small station either, but most trains wouldn’t stop, only tooting their whistles as they blew through the village.
“Probably,” Irwin said. “Can we see his room? Or do we need to find a judge to get a search order?”
“I own this place. I have a policy about visitors’ privacy, but in this case, we can ignore it. I can show you Mr. Smythe’s room.”
She rightly figures the warrant would waste her time as well as ours, thought Irwin. That would rarely happen in London.
“We’ll not disturb anything,” Mills said, “and we’ll ask you and your staff to stay out. If he’s our victim, mind you.”
“I hope that soon ends so I can rent out the room again.”
They followed the owner up to a small room on the third floor. “I’ll wait here on the landing,” she said after opening the door for them.
***
With powdered latex gloves and Teflon booties, Mills and Pound searched the room. Toiletries had no special interest for them, but Robert searched through the valise and larger suitcase while Irwin went through the clothes. Several handkerchiefs bore the monogram J.L.T. The surname didn’t match with Smythe obviously. He told Robert.
“Suitcases’ initials are J.L.T. too,” Robert said. “We’ll want to dust them for prints.” He then went through the little desk’s drawers and then the bin. “Here’s something: The name Sara followed by an address and phone number. No town indicated and the exchange could be anywhere in the area. A job for Toby, I’m thinking.”
“We’re a bit further along at least, inspector. That is, if Sara is our killer.”
“I think we can call in the constables and others helping with the search for now. Mr. Smythe is our victim. We now need to check out this address and phone number.”
“Perhaps he was up to no good,” Irwin said, “using an alias. Was he here to kill Sara? Or to blackmail her?”
“A VIP in a major shipping company? Sounds like a stretch. In any case, whoever it was, was angry enough to kill him.”
“He could be up to his ears in gambling debt. I had a case like that in London.”
“A murder case?”
“An attempted murder case. The target was the man the perpetrator owed money to.”
“Ha! Human weakness often rears its ugly head when money is involved. I suppose the prat was lying to his wife about it too.”
“No. He was a widower. Nasty bloke, though.”
“Can’t say the missus drove him to it then.” He glanced at the manager pacing in the corridor. “We’d better do a runner before she wears herself out.”
They thanked the manager and returned to Robert’s vehicle in the nearby car park.
Chapter Six
“Got it!” Toby said.
Tim Harding was soon looking over his shoulder. “Jot that down for me. I’ll take it to Mills and Pound.”
Tim was a bit nervous as he walked towards his superior’s office. It’d been bad enough working for the crusty old inspector; now he had to deal with two. Although Pound was nearer his age and less gruff, the two together made a demanding duo. Of course, Irwin was helping without being paid. Good of him to do so, but his help sidelines me a lot.
“Have a seat,” Irwin said as he entered Mills’s office.
“Got something, lad?” Robert said.
“Town’s Penrith where you were. Shall we call the number?”
Robert nodded. There was no answer. The inspector looked at his watch. “The missus signed me up for a mash fest in Windermere. Tim, go with Irwin and check out that address. Don’t hesitate to call me. I could use a good excuse to get out of high tea.”
“Will do,” Tim said, his mood brightening.
Irwin, feeling a bit sorry for Robert and his social life, climbed in besides Tim, who was already at the wheel of the patrol car. He saw himself in the young sergeant, an energetic fellow who was on his way up if life would be fair to him.
“I know the way,” he said. “I guess you do too.”
“People fished on the lake when I was young, but I was more into hiking. Go for it. Roads have changed, and all that. I’m a bit stressed, if you want to know the truth.”
“Didn’t count on being roped into an investigation, I imagine.”
“I’m supposed to be recovering from a previous one.” Tim pulled out into traffic.
Irwin saw the vehicle coming at them before Tim did. “Look out!”
The car crashed head-on, airbags deployed, and day turned into night.
***
“You’ll live, Irwin.”
He felt a hand pat his, but the voice seemed distant. Yet familiar? He opened his eyes to see Devon.
“What-what happened?”
“Someone crashed into your car. There were some witnesses who said a small man in a hoodie ran away from the scene, leaving the hire-car there. Coppers poured out of the station and pulled you two out before both cars caught fire.”
“Tim?”
“Banged up a bit more than you are. Broken arm and cuts on his face from windscreen shards.”
“I need to talk to him. Maybe he can describe the driver.”
“My uncle is with him now. You’re staying put until the physician clears you. Tim had a concussion, so you might also have one.”
Irwin moved a bit, looking for water on the nightstand. “I think I’m more dehydrated.”
“Maybe your mouth is dry, but you were on IV. I just disconnected you. If the doctor gives the okay, you can go. I’ll get some ice chips.”
She was gone only a moment when Robert showed up.
“Could Tim describe that crazy driver?” Irwin asked.
“Not very well. Said he looked like a young kid with a Man-U sweatshirt, hood and all. Fake name on the rental receipt.”
Irwin thought a moment. “A woman dressed like that might be mistaken for a kid.”
Robert raised his eyebrows. “I was writing it off as some kid out for a joyride in a stolen motor. I know what you’re thinking, but aren’t you being paranoid?”
“I’m helping on the investigation, and I am your only witness. That’s maybe two good reasons to try to kill me.”
“Okay, I’ll give you that. Let me check out this Sara person. That could sort things a bit.”
“Didn’t the rental clerk ask to see a driver’s permit?”
“Not even. And he might lose his job over that, poor prat.”
“I want to go with you then.”
“Where to?”
“Penrith. We need to find this Sara.”
Robert nodded. “I’ll ask the NHS pill-pusher if it’s okay. I’m going to get hell for having a civilian consultant on this case, so I might as well go all out.”
***
Comments are always welcome.
A. B. Carolan’s Origins. You can’t say A. B.’s novels are British-style mysteries; he’s Irish and he writes sci-fi mysteries for young adults. In this one, Kayla Jones has dreams she can’t understand. Her future seems determined as the brilliant STEM student who looks forward to a research career, but her past gets in the way. As if the chaos afflicting the world and leading to her adopted father’s death wasn’t enough, killers begin to pursue her. With some friends who come to her aid, she’s on her way to discover a conspiracy that can be traced to prehistoric battles waged by hominins bent on conquest of a primitive Earth.
Around the world and to the stars! In libris libertas!
