It Leaves a Nasty Stain

By Mike Fredman

Online is where it’s at in the detective business. That's what Rick Stone, owner of the Online Detective Agency believes. After all where better to check someone out than on the biggest information source in the world. And there are plenty of companies who want people checked out. It's something Rick and his two beautiful assistants, Megan Richards and Katelina Van Hacker are rather good at it.

Of course, there are the other cases. The ones that are off line so to speak, the ones that are darker and sometimes turn nasty. Where the computer has to give way to the up close and personal. Like the one Rick gets involved in here.

A missing persons case, with an amorous client, leads Rick into a maze of double dealing, blackmail and a murder or three. There's trouble of another sort too. But more than a little of that comes from Rick's complicated love life and the machinations of Megan and Katelina.

Our hero gets there in the end with some help from the ladies, but the end isn't quite as he'd planned it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mike Fredman
• Release date: Feb 14, 2013
• ISBN: 9780957547919

Mike Fredman

I’ve written all my life, short stories when I was a boy and later a radio play and articles for various magazines. I’ve also worked in advertising as a writer and television producer with amongst others Salman Rushdie and Fay Weldon, for clients like ICI, Shell, Rowntree, American Express (That will do nicely) and Sainsbury’s. At other times I’ve published and edited magazines – the first for Ascot Racecourse – others for Cheltenham and Aintree. On the book front there are three thrillers featuring Willie Halliday my Buddhist private eye, who’s been likened to Philip Marlowe in some reviews. I have just launched a new detective Rick Stone who with his two beautiful assistants, Megan and Katelina run the Online Detective Agency, and manage to find plenty of trouble. The book's called "It Leaves A Nasty Stain." "Ring Back" is a sci-fi romance , the most unusual tale of Frederick and Leila and their big adventure together. You can see a trailer on Youtube I’ve always liked reading poetry, and two years ago I started writing it. Late last year I published "Off My Chest’"- poetry for people who don’t ‘do’ poetry. There other books are in preparation, one of them a homage to Bogart & Bergman called, "Casablanca Kiss " Outside of writing I’m a huge opera fan, a keen gardener, even though I live in Fulham! I’m a member of the MCC, and a season ticket holder at Chelsea where I’ve been a fan for 40 years!

Book preview

Death Comes Unexpectedly

By

Mike Fredman

Published by The Black Dahlia Company Limited

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © Mike Fredman 2012

All rights reserved

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from The Publisher.

ISBN 978-0-9575479-6-4

Cover design by Amanda Campbell-Gold

Image ©: planctonvideo/123RF.com

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 1

Nine o’clock on a cold winter night. The hard, brown fields were already lightly dusted with the snow that had started falling an hour before. I drove on down dark, winding roads through countryside that Celt, Roman, Saxon, Jute and Norman had ridden over before me. Of course, they hadn’t been on their way to Newby Manor. Lord Fontwell’s big country house was old, but not that old.

The snow got thicker and, not for the first time, I wondered what I was doing driving through darkest Sussex on my way to start a new case just six days before Christmas. But then private detectives can’t afford to be choosy. And anyway, there was something rather appealing about carrying out an enquiry for a steward of the Jockey Club.

There was another reason too, Phoebe, my healthy and clean limbed young secretary would have been very upset if I’d turned down a senior peer of the realm. And Phoebe was not a girl you upset lightly. After all she has been light heavyweight boxing champion of Roedean in her day.

A pair of large, wrought iron gates attached to a pair of large half-timbered lodge houses appeared on my right. There was a coat of arms on each gate and a motto impressing on me that virtue and courage were the secrets of a happy and useful life. I didn’t doubt it. Someone in Lord Fontwell’s illustrious family had been a man after my own heart.

I drove on for another ten minutes before reaching the manor house itself. It was quite something sitting there in the cold frosted moonlight. The guidebook Phoebe had bought said it was built in 1572, and was a fine example of early Elizabethan architecture. You could say that again. At the moment it looked like an early Christmas card.

Someone must have seen me coming, because I was hardly out of the car before the front door opened and a faithful old retainer tottered towards me, across a couple of acres of raked gravel, bidding me welcome. I just hoped he was up to the return trip.

I followed him into the house, if you can describe a place that size as a house. The hallway looked like something out of an thirties movie. I half expected to see Errol Flynn swinging from the chandeliers to greet me. There was enough armour standing around to start a civil war. Paintings covered the wood panelled walls; mainly family portraits I judged, but there were a couple of Stubbs as well. I hated to think what the fire insurance on the place must be.

Heathers showed me into the library and said that his Lordship would join me in a minute. It was a big room, about the size of the British Museum, with a blazing log fire at either end. The walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling. And they weren’t paperbacks. As a library it was the answer to a bibliophile’s prayer. The leather chairs danced in the flickering light cast from fireplaces that were carved wood, and big enough to roast an ox in. There was an elegant desk in one corner of the room, decorated with photographs in silver frames and a desk light that hadn’t been bought at Ryman’s. The curtains were long and made of velvet, and presumably hid windows that were equally long and elegant.

I moved over to the bookshelves and pulled out a bound copy of back numbers of the Racing Calendar that took my eye. Inside the front covers there was an Exhibitions sticker with the Fontwell coat of arms on. As I started leafing through the book the doors opened behind me, and Lord Fontwell, Marquess of Etchingham, Earl of Amberly, Viscount Robertsbridge and a few other such tributes from grateful monarchs walked across the room to meet me. It was an impressive sight. I pitied any poor jockey or trainer called before this particular steward.

‘Mr Halliday, how good of you to come. Let me offer you something to drink, or perhaps you’d prefer a cup of tea or coffee?’

The voice was quiet, considered. The smile was gentle, almost shy. But then everything about Lord Fontwell proclaimed him to be a gentleman. He had a natural quality about him, he reminded me of an Indian religious leader I’d once met.

‘Tea please, I seem to live on the stuff.’

‘In that case, perhaps you’d like some china tea. I had a rather fine blend sent to me by a friend in the city.’

He walked over to the fireplace and rang the bell. A minute later Heathers appeared like the genie in Aladdin’s magic lamp. I watched his lordship as he ordered my tea. He was a good-looking man with fine features. All except for the nose, which was decidedly fleshy and looked as if it had been fed on a regular diet of whisky and port for all of its 67 years. The hair was grey, and thinning, but the eyes were clear and blue. They were the kind of eyes that looked deep into a man’s motives. He was a couple of inches taller than me, a shade over six foot. And his body had a leanness about it that told you he was still an active man. Despite his height, I knew he had been an amateur rider of some note in his younger days.

He came over to where I was standing and looked at the book I’d taken down.

‘Are you a racing man?’ he asked.

‘I do my bit to keep the bookmakers in the manner to which they’ve become accustomed.’

He laughed. ‘Don’t we all. I tell you Mr Halliday, there’s nothing like owning a horse to lose you money. Whenever I back mine they lose, when I don’t back them they win. And to make it worse everyone thinks I’m in the know and making a fortune.’

Heathers reappeared with the china tea. I said I’d pour it myself. He looked relieved, but then if I shook as much as he did, I’d have been relieved.

‘Is there anything else, my lord?’ he asked in a voice several degrees plummier than his noble employer.

‘No thank you, Heathers. I’ll see Mr Halliday out myself. Goodnight to you.’

‘Goodnight, my lord.’

Lord Fontwell poured himself a whisky from a set of decanters by the desk and then sat down opposite me. He obviously didn’t relish what he had to say. He took a sip of his whisky and looked across the firelight at me.

‘I’ve made a few enquiries of my own about you Mr Halliday.’ He paused, as if expecting me to say something.

‘You’d be a fool if you hadn’t.’

He smiled. ‘Precisely. Incidentally, how’s the tea?’

‘I suspect it’s rather like the enquiry you want me to make, very delicate.’

‘Am I that obvious? Well you’re right, Mr Halliday, I haven’t got much stomach for what I’m about to tell you. Let me get myself another drink and I’ll start. You don’t drink do you?’

‘No.’

‘Or smoke?’

‘No.’ He had been making enquiries. I wondered if he knew what I’d had for breakfast.

‘Mmm. Wise fellow.’ He sat down again and peered at his highly polished, brown brogues. They were at odds with the well-used grey flannels and the tattered check shirt, that was beginning to fray at the cuffs, and the old woolly cardigan. It looked a comfortable outfit on an uncomfortable man.

‘Do you know anything about the British Oxide Company, Mr Halliday?’

‘Not a lot. I’ve seen the name in the newspapers. I know they’re big. And that they’re British.’

‘Well you don’t need to know a lot more. It is a big company, and a successful company, internationally I mean. And it’s important to this country that it continues to do well. There’s no real reason why it shouldn’t, except that I think a large part of its current success is due to Peter Passmore, its Managing Director…’

He stopped and took another shot of his neat whisky.

‘Peter Passmore could be in a lot of trouble. And obviously that wouldn’t be good for British Oxide or, frankly, for British industry. Peter is, in fact, Director General elect of the CBI, so you can see what an important position he is in vis-à-vis industry as a whole.’

I nodded and refilled my bone china cup with hot jasmine scented liquid.

‘What kind of trouble could Peter Passmore be in?’ I asked, and wondered how Lord Fontwell was involved anyway. Fontwell took two pieces of paper out of his cardigan pocket and handed them to me. ‘I think if you read this, Mr Halliday, you’ll see how serious the situation is.’

I took the two sheets of paper. It was a letter, badly typed on cheap paper. The English wasn’t going to win any prizes either. But then blackmail letters don’t rely on style for effect. There was no address, just the date. The letter read:

"Lord Fontwell,

You don’t know me, but I used to work at British Oxide in the messenger department. While I was there Mr Passmore seduced me and made me be his lover. I was only 16 at the time and that is against the law. I have letters to prove it and I will send them to the papers and TV if he doesn’t leave his job at the CBI.

He is an enemy of the workers of this country and we in the Socialist Workers Army of Liberation will not stand by and let him do further damage to the working people…"

There was more in the same vein and then a final two lines,

He has been warned, so have you. Stop him or else the letters will go to the papers and television.

The letter wasn’t signed but there was a name typed at the bottom of the second sheet. It was Vic Haines.

‘Have you spoken to Passmore about the letter?’ I asked.

‘No.’

It was a sad, ‘no’ and suddenly the proud old face looked weary and tired.

‘No, I haven’t Mr Halliday. Perhaps I’d better explain. Until three years ago, I was Chairman of British Oxide. I’m now its President which is a rather grand title that means I’m here if they want to consult me. Frankly if I did my job properly while I was there they shouldn’t have to consult me. You see part of my role as Chairman was to pick and train a management team that would take the Company through the next decade. I picked Peter Passmore.’

He smiled to himself. ‘He picked himself really. He’s a brilliant business man, dedicated, quite ruthless, like some merchant prince from days gone by. It was exciting. We were a good partnership, Peter and I. Business at that level, Mr Halliday, is a full-time job, so we saw a lot of each other. Cheryl, that’s his wife, said if they ever got divorced she’d cite British Oxide and me as joint correspondents. Not that she complained, she’s a good one. Genuine.’

He made her sound like one of runners in the 2.30 at Kempton, but then something told me that the twelfth Marquess of Etchingham wasn’t as good with women as he was with horses. Not, mind you, that I was one to talk.

‘Friendship’s a very rare thing, Mr Halliday. And that’s what happened between Peter and myself. I suppose on my side he became almost like a son to me. You see I never had any children; there wasn’t time before Lavinia’s accident. My wife was killed in a hunting accident, not very long after we were married.’

He gazed into the fire, his face full of memories. When he looked up, he said, ‘I couldn’t ask Peter about the letter Mr Halliday because for the first time in my life I don’t know how.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked, quietly.

‘I want to know if it’s true. Not just this letter, everything. It’s not much of a job to offer anyone.’

‘I’ve had worse. And it’s probably better for me to ask one or two quiet questions than for you to get involved. People have a habit of noticing when people with well-known names and faces turn up in unexpected places.’

‘Is there anything you want from me?’

‘I’d like you to answer a few questions.’

‘Of course.’

‘Do you remember Vic Haines at all? I mean did he hang around your or Passmore’s office; was he a special messenger or anything like that?’

‘I can’t remember him at all, Mr Halliday. And frankly neither can anyone else I’ve spoken to. I even asked my old secretary. She says she vaguely remembers someone of that name, but its four or five years ago. We had a staff of over four hundred at head office alone.’

I nodded. ‘It was just a chance. You see he knows your name, he wrote to you even though you’re not actually involved in the Company anymore. Incidentally, where did the letter come to, here or British Oxide?’

‘Here. I’m afraid I didn’t keep the envelope.’

‘What about an address for Vic Haines, do you think you could ask someone in…’

He produced another piece of paper from his cardigan pocket. ‘I can be more helpful this time,’ he said. ‘This was the last address we had for him. They think it was or is his parents’ home.’

‘Good. They’re less likely to have moved.’ I looked at the address. It was in Brixton. A long way from Newby Manor.

‘I’m going to need some kind of authorisation from you Lord Fontwell. A letter will do, just something to say that I’m acting for you. I won’t use it unless I have to, but people get nervous when you ask too many questions for no apparent reason.’

He walked over to his desk, took out a sheet of crested notepaper and wrote in an elegant hand the letter I’d asked for. It read,"To Whomsoever It May Concern,

This is to confirm that Mr Willie Halliday is acting as my agent in the present matter and has my authority with regard to any action or enquiry he might choose to pursue."

It was signed, Fontwell.

‘You should have been in the Foreign Office,’ I said. ‘This note says nothing and everything.’

He chuckled, reminiscing, ‘I’ll let you into a secret, I was for two years, but I couldn’t stand the other chaps. And they weren’t too keen on me. It took me a long time to learn to be that diplomatic,’ he said, nodding at the note.

I looked at it again. ‘It gives me a lot of rope.’

‘I’ve never done things by halves, Mr Halliday. I’m not going to start now at the age of 67. I’m pretty certain I’ve chosen the right man, and if I haven’t and I get myself into a mess, then I’ll just have to get out of it, shan’t I?’

I believed he would too. Lord Fontwell struck me as being a pretty tough character. And, of course, he wasn’t exactly without powerful friends.

‘Do you think the letter’s genuine?’ I asked.

‘I think whoever wrote it means business.’

‘Do you mean that perhaps Vic Haines didn’t write the letter?’

‘Well, I suspect not all of it. The political rubbish in the middle sounds to me as if it’s been written by someone else. Of course, he could have copied it out of a pamphlet …’

‘Or, he could have had help from a so called comrade, someone in the Socialist Workers Army of Liberation.’

‘Yes.’

‘It says in the letter that Passmore has already been warned. Would he have done anything about it?’

He shook his head firmly. ‘No. Not if you mean would he have even considered resigning from the job at the CBI. He’s as hard as a rock. No, I’m sure I got the letter because they haven’t got anything at all out of Peter.’

His theory made sense, even if some other things didn’t. ‘What about the Socialist Workers Army of Liberation, have you or British Oxide ever had any dealings with them?’

He got up and poured himself another drink. ‘No, not that I know of. Some of their members might have been on our staff, but we never had any trouble from them. Some woman with a funny name, Pandora, Pandora Drummond, runs the organisation. She’s always in the papers. They’re everywhere these days. Women, I mean, not damn silly names. Had one up before me the other day at the Jockey Club. Pretty little thing, big eyes, kept batting them at me and pretending she didn’t know what we were talking about when we took the race away from her for taking the favourite’s ground. Said she wouldn’t do it again, I mean, can you imagine Lester or Scobie saying, I won’t do it again?’

It was hard to imagine. I didn’t get too much out of the meeting after that, but I didn’t leave for another hour, wild horses wouldn’t have dragged me away whilst Lord Fontwell was giving me the inside story on some of the big names in racing.

It was eleven fifteen when I eventually got up to go. Lord Fontwell walked to the door with me. He’d seemed more relaxed when we were talking about racing, but now I could sense a tension and a sadness about him. He stopped me by the front door and put his hand on my arm.

‘You’ll let me know anything you find out won’t you, Mr Halliday? Anything and everything. I want to be able to help Peter, if he needs help, and to do that I need to know everything.’

‘You’ll get it all,’ I promised.

‘We haven’t talked about money, but it goes without saying you’re to spend anything you need. Let me know at a later date.’

Outside it was still snowing. I walked across a white, silent landscape to the faithful mini cooper. Sometime soon I was going to have to get a new car, but as St Francis had said when asking the Lord for chastity, not just yet. I cleared the snow off the car and looked back towards the manor house, Lord Fontwell was still at the door. And I knew he would be until the car was out of sight. He looked a lonely figure against the big house. It just goes to show even the richest lives are touched by sadness. The coin doesn’t