I, Detective

  The safehouse was a hive of activity. 'What's going on?' I demanded.

  Sandy said: ‘It's Barnes. He just upped and left.'

  We found him an hour later at home. I rang the bell. Someone - a goon - let us in. And ten minutes later, we were out, our minds reeling.

  There was nothing for it. Back to Sandy's. But I had to admit, my mind wasn’t really on her.

  Barnes' parting words still echoed in my mind.

  'No, Nova, I've changed my mind. I think I'll stick around.'

  Or rather, the bastard had planned it all along. And now, with the eager assistance of the police, Joe 'Lucky' Barnes was the biggest gangland boss we'd had in the city for decades.

  ONLY KIDDING

  A man can get confused. Where am I waking up every morning? It just isn't healthy to have three women on the go. It's so easy to say the wrong name before you're properly awake. How the hell did I get myself in this situation?

  Well, I blame the job - that, and the fact that someone is clearly trying to kill me. Although you might think I'm just a slapper.

  Jenny, my wife, clearly thinks all is not right. I was in her bed that morning - the right bed, you could say.

  She said: 'We're not right,'

  I said: 'You can say that again.'

  'I think we need to go see a therapist.'

  Well I told her where to go concerning that. Indeed, my mind was reeling as I got into work. No way was I allowing one of THEM to play with my head.

  I'd been in a short while when Sandy Powers came into my office. She nearly said 'Cass', then remembered we were at work.

  'Guv,' she said, 'there's a girl downstairs you should talk to.'

  Down in the interview room, the girl sat, apprehensively.

  About ten years of age, she was a pretty thing, but she wore a pained expression as if it was armour. She looked at me. Said: 'Who are you?'

  'DI Nova,' I answered.

  She told us what she wanted: 'I want you to arrest my dad.'

  'Why's that?' I asked.

  'Because he's killed my uncle.'

  Her name was Demi Unwin, and we packed Demi Unwin off to school, making a mental note to stop parents giving their kids the name of a film star.

  The day went quiet after that. Sandy and me took some time off. Went to her flat. I left to do a few jobs then, while Sandy went back to the station. Walking up to my car, I was surprised to see Jenny there.

  'Hello, luv, what you doing here?' I asked.

  She gave me one of her suspicious looks. Turning to determination, she said: 'You're having an affair.'

  My mind raced. 'Jenny,' I said, 'have you been following me?'

  It was clear to her that I was having an affair. God almighty, it would be clear to anyone, I suppose. Anyway, she didn't hang around. She almost ran off, and I had the sense she was losing it. However, I was just about to go after her when Sandy rang.

  'Guv,' she said, 'I think you'd better meet me.' She gave me the address.

  The place of the meet was that of one Johnny Unwin, male, about thirty five, and quite dead, having been beaten over the head with a crow bar, found next to him.

  'Nasty,' I said as I walked in. However, I wasn't prepared for the shock that would come next.

  'You know who he is, don't you guv,' said Sandy. 'He's Demi Unwin's uncle' - which naturally sent us straight round to Demi Unwin's dad; which only confused things even more - as became easily apparent several hours later.

  'So what do we do now?' asked Sandy, the evidence in front of her.

  'I think you ought to see the girl again,' I said. After all, something was very fishy indeed - for whilst the crow bar offered a perfect set of her father's prints, the said gent had an alibi that simply couldn't be cracked. He was away all the afternoon at a hospital appointment, and had been in someone's company the whole time.

  It didn't take Sandy long to find out the truth. She was good with kids. And when Demi slipped up by mentioning the crow bar, it was obvious what had happened.

  Demi was taken into care after the interview. Arresting a kid for killing her uncle and setting up her father was not a nice job at all. Much more satisfying was the arrest of her father, charged with being a member of a paedophile ring along with his brother.

  Perhaps they'd both end up in therapy, the father and the daughter. And as I got home and saw the anguish on Jenny's face, something told me I'd probably end up there too.

  LIFE IN SUSPENSE

  Have you ever had days you wished you could wipe out of existence? I have - now.

  It began a couple of days previously when Big Maggie asked me to call round.

  'Cass,' she said, 'I'm being stalked.'

  I could see she was worried. But apart from checking the flat was secure, I wasn't sure what I could do. She hadn't even seen the guy. And who was going to take seriously claims from a Tom?

  I gave her all the comfort I could and told her to get in touch with me if anything else happened. And anyway, I had other things on my mind. Jenny, my wife, was getting worse. Paranoid, I think they call it. Accusations flew every time I saw her.

  ‘You're seeing someone else.’

  ‘Who is she?'

  ‘I’ll find out, you bastard.'

  And it couldn't be doing much for the baby she was carrying.

  I told Sandy we'd better cool it for the time being - which was hard for both of us, seeing we worked with each other. But when I got the call from Big Maggie that fateful morning I knew life was building up for a large dose of nastiness.

  She was quite a mess, but refused the hospital.

  ‘I’ll be okay, Cass,' she said.

  She'd have a black eye, a few cuts and bruises, but when the split lip cured, everything else should go. I'd clearly seen worse. But that didn't help the guilt I felt.

  I phoned in work. 'DI Nova here, guv,' I said to DCI Groves. ‘I’ve got family problems. I won't be in today.'

  Groves didn't like it. 'What! You, too?'

  'What do you mean?' I asked.

  'DC Powers hasn't turned up either.'

  Which was strange. I rang her flat, but got no reply. And I have to confess, I was worried. But I could only handle one thing at a time.

  I left Big Maggie's flat. Went to the place she'd been beaten up, outside a shop maybe a hundred yards away. I didn't think I'd find anything to give me a lead to the stalker. And I guess alarm bells should have rung when I did.

  It was a receipt for goods received. Maybe it had nothing to do with the beating, but the droplets of blood on it told me it could be. And as there was an address on the receipt, I had to check it out.

  I tried Sandy a couple more times as I drove over, but with no luck. A call to the station confirmed she hadn't turned up there either. And by now I was really worried. But the worries did seem to evaporate when I found the flat I'd been guided to open.

  Walking in, I’m not sure what happened next. Other than someone came up from behind and slugged me hard over the head.

  When I came round, my head hurt, my hands were tied, and my eyes were fuzzy. But through the haze, I saw the man in front of me. And I had to admit, I almost laughed.

  Vince Mills was a petty villain who, ten years ago, had tried to make it big. As a young, active DS, I was soon on his trail and ended his career abruptly.

  'And now you're going to pay,' he said, after reminding me of the fact.

  'So it’s YOU who was trying to kill me,' I said. To which he laughed. And then it struck me.

  I stared him in the eyes. 'And you stalked Maggie as bait to bring me in.'

  'Got it in one,' said Vince.

  Which meant, of course, that he must have been following me to know about Maggie in the first place. And if he knew about Maggie, then he was bound to know about Sandy, too. And Sandy had gone missing.

  He came at me with a knife then. Ready for him, I dived, head first, into his gut, winding him and he fell over. Giving him no time to get his act together, I turned round o
n the floor and delivered half a dozen kicks in quick succession to his head.

  It was going to be some time before he came round. Crawling over to the knife, I grabbed it and worked the rope, releasing myself. Grabbing my mobile, I called the station and a car was soon on its way.

  Maybe if I'd waited for it, Vince Mills might not have got away, but my main concern now was Sandy. I had to find her. And I was half way to her flat when I got the call.

  'Nova,' I said.

  'Cass, it's DCI Groves.'

  He'd called me Cass. He never did that. I was worried. 'What is it, guv?'

  'I think you'd better get over to the hospital straight away.'

  I cursed Vince Mills all the way to the hospital. And it wasn't until I got there that I realized my curses were misplaced.

  Groves was waiting for me. Explained. ‘It seems DC Powers was confronted outside her flat. She pushed her away, and she fell down the stairs, banging her head bad. But not before she'd stabbed DC Powers in the chest.’

  And there I stood, between the beds. Sandy and Jenny looked serene in their comas. And I cried.

  MARMADUKE GREY

  BODY OF EVIDENCE

  I was in discussion with Marmaduke Grey one day in his apartment in the centre of Victorian London when he seemed to lose his temper. 'Good grief, Perkins,' he said, 'you really must realize the genius of some of our criminals.'

  I had been pointing out that, as a private investigator, Marmaduke did not really have a great deal to do. The police seemed to solve most crime. 'But Marmaduke, you simply have to look at the newspapers to see how quickly the police are at investigation; and how, so often, they get the right man.'

  'Rubbish!' exclaimed Marmaduke. 'They get the obvious man. And all too often he is innocent.'

  'But the facts, Marmaduke, the facts.'

  'My dear Perkins, he continued, 'there are two types of criminal. First of all, we have the typical villain, of which any city is infested. Quite correctly, the police round them up quite quickly. But then we have a second variety. These are the criminals who use their brain. And not only are they rarely caught. Often, the police don't even realize a crime has been committed.'

  'I'm sorry, Marmaduke,' I said, 'I really cannot believe that.'

  'Very well,' said Marmaduke. 'Let me find such a crime for you now.'

  He picked up the newspaper and read for some five minutes. Finally, he said: 'Such a shame about the death of Lord Abercrombie, is it not?'

  I sensed a change of conversation, as if he was not prepared to accept defeat. A gallant fellow, I allowed it to pass. 'It is indeed, Marmaduke,' I said. 'A great loss to London.' Lord Abercrombie had died in a fire at his offices two nights previously. Although the newspapers had spared the details, his body had been quite horrifically burned.

  'Indeed,' said Marmaduke. 'Burned beyond recognition, I am told.'

  'That is quite so,' I concurred.

  'So there is no real proof that he is dead.'

  At that point, Marmaduke brought to my attention a further report, smaller and on an inner page. It concerned the stealing of a recently buried body from its grave.

  'I don't see a connection,' I said, but already my certainty was beginning to wane.

  Several hours later we found ourselves in the offices of one of the more seedy newspapers that litter our streets. I must confess, I was not used to Marmaduke indulging in gossip, but here he was, interested in all the dirt and detritus that sometimes attaches to our supposed pillars of society.

  When we departed, I said: 'I don't see the point of this exercise, Marmaduke. Is it right to speak so ill of the dead?'

  'It certainly is not,' he replied. 'But I doubt it applies in this situation.'

  'So what do you deduce from your conversation?' I asked. 'From what I could see, you wanted information on everyone who is someone.'

  'Sadly, I had to ask more questions than I wanted so as to hide from the informant the information that is of importance.'

  'Which is what?'

  We hailed a Hansom cab, and soon we were hastening away from Fleet Street. 'First of all,' said Marmaduke as he sat, 'it is clear that Lord Abercrombie was having financial problems. And secondly, he seems to have become far too close to one Lady Cecilia Nugent. And if I am correct, I think we will find that the good lady is about to depart on a somewhat lengthy tour of Europe, or some more distant land.'

  'And your insinuation is?'

  'Quite simple. Abercrombie decided he had to disappear, so he dug up the body, placed it in his offices and set them on fire. As for Lady Cecilia, she is about to depart on a new life also - no doubt to be lost at sea, or some other tragedy - and at present she is leaving with Abercrombie, with whom she is beginning a new life.'

  'An idea straight from the gutter,' I said, 'I really cannot believe you could think such things.'

  But of course, when we arrived at Lady Cecilia's premises, she had, indeed, just departed on a Grand Tour. And a speedy Hansom cab just got us to Waterloo before her train was to depart.

  Marmaduke apologized to her for his interruption. But it soon became clear she was alone, with just a butler and two maids for company.

  As we departed her carriage, Marmaduke said: 'Well goodbye Lady Cecilia, and enjoy your trip.'

  The butler saw us out. And just as we were about to leave, Marmaduke said: 'And you, too, Abercrombie.'

  To which the butler replied: 'Thank you.'

  'Well I'm ashamed,' I said when we arrived back at Marmaduke's apartment.

  'Ashamed of what?' asked my good friend.

  'That Englishmen can act in such ways. And also my snobbery, in that I didn't even look at the butler. Yet when you pointed it out, it was obvious it was Abercrombie.'

  'To the first point,' said Marmaduke, 'Englishmen are slave to their passions as are any other race. And as to the second, we need to exist in a simple world or nothing will ever make sense. And it is that point which allows the more intelligent criminal to thrive.'

  OUR AMERICAN FRIEND

  One would have thought that the human race would be similar the world over. After all, Mr Darwin had recently proved we are all cousins, sharing an exact evolutionary past. But Marmaduke Grey had very different ideas.

  'It's quite simple, Perkins,' he said, 'while we may well have evolved in body, we have also taken very different directions in culture. And it is our culture, more than anything else, which defines us.'

  I had to confess, it was difficult to accept such an idea. After all, science is the most powerful force we have at our disposal. But a recent case clearly changed my mind.

  The Inspector of Police had visited Marmaduke and introduced him to one Mr Hames Buckminster, an American gentleman.

  'Well howdy, Mr Grey,' said the American, a huge man over six feet tall with broad shoulders. 'I'm told you can be of assistance.'

  Marmaduke stood up and shook his hand. 'And what can I do for you?' he asked.

  'I'm from an American detective agency and I'm hunting down a gang of dangerous robbers who held up the Western Pacific Railway. I managed to track them to New York where they caught a boat and I believe they are holed up in London, helped by one of your own villains.'

  Marmaduke seemed to like the gentleman's straight forward ways, and once furnished with the name of the villain in question, the three of us caught a Hansom cab to the gentleman's apartment. Outside, Mr Buckminster removed from a shoulder holster the biggest gun I had ever since.

  'A Colt 45,' he said, 'the most powerful gun in the world.'

  Marmaduke said: 'I don't think we will need that.'

  Mr Buckminster looked shocked. 'But these are dangerous outlaws,' he said. 'And when we break in, there may be a shoot-out.'

  'But I don't think we need to break in. Merely watch.'

  It was an hour later that Mr Buckminster recognized one of the outlaws leave the apartment. He had seemed agitated as we did things the English way, quietly keeping a watch on the apartment. But now he seeme
d animated as he drew his weapon and moved forward.

  Marmaduke placed a hand on his shoulder. 'No, no, Mr Buckminster. We simply follow him.'

  Soon the outlaw disappeared into his own apartment, and Marmaduke was about to knock on the door when Mr Buckminster drew his weapon once more, kicked in the door and rushed in. A second later, three shots rang out and by the time we entered, the outlaw was dead in a pool of blood.

  'I must ask if that was wise,' said Marmaduke, clearly somewhat annoyed at the slaughter. ‘The man doesn't seem to have a gun. And how do you now propose to catch the other two outlaws?'

  Mr Buckminster smiled, and a thorough search of the apartment gave him a lead - another address, where he was certain at least one other outlaw would be secreted.

  It was two hours later that we stood outside the next apartment.

  'Perhaps you'd like to leave it to us this time,' offered Marmaduke. But whilst Mr Buckminster tried his best to mend his ways, the second the door was opened, he pushed the gentleman inside and before we managed to enter, a couple of shots had dispatched him to a better place. Yet as before, Mr Buckminster managed to search the apartment and gain knowledge of yet another apartment, where he was sure the third outlaw would be held up.

  'And what do you think of our American friend, Perkins?' asked Marmaduke when we were outside, alone.

  'I think he is a total barbarian,' I answered.

  'I must agree,' said Marmaduke, 'and I do not think it safe for you to join us on this last adventure.'

  'But Marmaduke,' I protested, 'you must let me accompany you.'

  But Marmaduke Grey was adamant. Yet, to ease my conscience, he did decide to send me on another job. Hence, somewhat aggrieved, I set off to the address he gave me in order to meet an acquaintance of Marmaduke's who had information about another case; although I had to confess to further annoyance when Marmaduke didn't even say goodbye.

  Mr Buckminster had come out of the apartment, and Marmaduke was busy in conversation, holding the Colt in his own hands, asking for specifications of the weapon.

  I had been at the aforementioned address for maybe five minutes when suddenly the door burst open and in came Mr Buckminster, squeezing the trigger of his Colt three times. In absolute shock, my expression was only matched by that of Mr Buckminster's, who was looking down the barrel of the gun, wondering why I was not dead.