Death Star

By Jim Carr

What the stars didn't foretell

No one saw it coming. Not the victim and not the 100-plus astrologers attending the annual gathering of the World Society of Astrologers, or even a hint of anything that might darken the society's prospects.

The first murder left everyone puzzled and then a second that put the society's inner circle on edge.

Winton Hazlett, inspector at a small town in England, thought he had the answer but found he had to rewrite his playbook as he uncovered the secrets that simmered below the surface.

All this while he tries to track down his niece being held captive by a bearded hermit, who has taken a fancy to her, and the dangers that lurked at the fringes of drug dealer's dark world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: jim Carr
• Release date: Apr 27, 2019
• ISBN: 9781989425053

Jim Carr

Jim Carr's adventure with words began as a teacher of Latin grammar, followed by a lengthy career in print journalism as a reporter, columnist and editor. He left to become a communications specialist for a number of national and international corporations and institutions. He returned to journalism in retirement and acts as associate editor of Spa Canada magazine as well as freelancing for other publications. He writes a blog about Thai resorts and spas, which is featured on Spa Canada's website, as well as fiction.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Hadrian Micklejoen had received death threats before but this one was different. The blunt, three-line message, typewritten on a piece of white paper, warned him he would die in four days of he failed to send them 100,000 pounds before then.

His wife, who brought him the letter, studied his face. I couldn’t help noticing that your address on the envelope was written in a woman’s hand. What does she want?

It wasn’t that kind of letter. Here, read it for yourself.

Faith shook her head. I don’t understand. What have you done to her to deserve getting a letter like this?

There is no her. It’s extortion by someone who thinks they can scare me into giving them 100,000 pounds. They’ve got another think coming.

She sat down next to him and stroked his brow. What do you plan to do?

Nothing. I think it’s a bluff. We won’t be here at the end of four days. But to ease your Mind, the first thing I’ll do when we get to Gladstonbury is visit the local constabulary. Besides, trying to kill someone in front of 400 people is no easy matter.

If it we left up to Me, I would contact Scotland Yard about it before we leave and get them on it.

Micklejeon shook his head. The last thing he wanted was to have Scotland Yard digging into his affairs. The least they were involved, the better.

It had been a tedious morning and he thought of his final consultation with that nervous commodity trader, Sheppard. He had considerable expertise in dealing with commodities, he thought with a smile. Micklejoen had called the Man by his last name so long now that he had forgotten his first name. The only thing that stood out about the individual now was his beak-like nose, which dominated Micklejoen’s sketches.

He kept a writing pad on his desk to remind him of key points in each client’s horoscope.  He also used it for doodling and to draw sketches of the person he was talking to. Treays, his personal assistant, told him he had a talent for caricature. He wasn’t taken in. He knew Treays was sucking up to him, the way he did with his clients.

Micklejoen’s office occupied the entire top floor of a narrow townhouse in Kensington.  He glanced at the globe with its carefully marked time zones standing in a walnut cradle near the arched window that overlooked a cobblestone street that circled the outskirts of a park. A faint whiff of sandalwood hovered in the air.

He was interrupted in his reverie by a light tap at the door. He recognized it as his wife’s. Faith Micklejoen, his wife of 28 years, was still upset over the letter. No further news? There was a quiver in her voice.

Nothing. Not a peep.

She had moved slowly to where he sat, and now stood behind his chair. She spotted a piece of lint on his blazer and reached out in a sudden gesture to remove it. Micklejoen liked this particular blazer, with its crest of his yacht club. He always felt good about himself when he wore it, and decided to take it with him to on his trip to New York.

After almost three decades, Faith Micklejoen knew every one of his moods. She knew he was more worried about the letter and the threat it contained than he let on, and she stroked his grey wavy hair. Better, she thought, than the Scotch he liked to drink during dark moments – and there had been quite a few over the past 25 years. Micklejoen preferred to drink Scotch on the rocks, usually without mix, sipping it slowly and swirling it around in his glass from time to time.

Still, she fretted. His health could be better. If only he would get more sun. Micklejoen didn’t agree. He always burned badly, enough times to make him wary about sitting out too long. He blamed it on his Irish ancestry. Besides, he told her once, a pasty complexion suited his profession better.

The limo should be here shortly. Our bags are packed and waiting at the door.

Micklejoen nodded. I’ve got to leave a note for Treays and will join you downstairs presently. Treays had promised to be back before they left, and it annoyed him that he had not shown up yet.

Micklejoen was descending the stairs from the second storey landing when the doorbell rang. It was a messenger, not the limo driver. Faith Micklejoen signed for an envelope and passed it to her husband.

Micklejoen paused for a moment, not quite sure what to do.

Perhaps we should wait for Mr. Treays, his wife suggested. The doorbell sounded before Micklejoen could answer. This time it was the limo driver. The driver stepped in and began taking their bags to the car.

It may be important, said Micklejoen, perhaps a note from our friend.

Or worse.

The driver, a tall young man, who looked as though he hadn’t eaten in a week, was no stranger to odd requests from passengers. At Faith Micklejoen’s request, he unsealed the envelope and withdrew the one page folded piece of paper and passed it to her husband. He opened it slowly.

HAROLD TREAYS WAS IN his late 50s but looked much older. His greying hair always looked as though it needed trimming and his hazel eyes had a tired, far-away look. He knew he was too late to see the Micklejoens off as he emerged from the Underground and deliberately slowed his pace just to make sure.

Treays didn’t like Micklejoen, detested him, in fact, for his high-handed arrogance, and the disdainful way he treated him. Micklejoen had pulled Treays out of a financial nightmare years earlier, and never let him forget it. It always rankled, no matter how Treays tried to come to terms with it.

Micklejoen had wanted him to accompany them to Gladstonbury, probably, Treays thought, to carry his bags but something had come up – with one of Micklejoen’s associates in Europe—that required Treays to stay around for at least another day and deal with it. An unexpected holiday, as far as Treays was concerned.

It was quite a come down for Treays, who had once been an investment banker with one of the largest financial institutions in the U.S. Treays had graduated from university in 1942 magna cum laude in mathematics.

Treays always felt he was meant for much bigger things but the financial debacle, in which he found himself embroiled, left him desolated, eroding his confidence at all levels. It even cost him his wife, who left him as soon as she learned she would have to share his poverty.

He thought of her the day before – for the first time in years. He was shaving and looking in the mirror – at his greying hair and his plain, undistinguished face and heard his slow, uninspired voice. He knew in his heart of hearts she was right and he could still hear her voice, which still grated on his nerves in later years, telling him over and over I’m not getting much out of...

Treays had become old too soon. He walked with a slight stoop as though there were something wrong with his back. At this stage, it was more habit than anything else. But all that was about to change. Treays could feel it in his bones. All the planning and scheming of the past 12 years was about to pay off and give him back his life.

He turned the corner in time to see the limo taking the Micklejoens to the airport pull out of the courtyard, and smiled.

CHAPTER TWO

Connor Moreton stuck his head inside door. There’s an old bird out front who demands to see you, inspector.

What does he want?" Inspector Winton Hazlett looked up from his report for the chief inspector. It was a monthly chore and he hated it every time.

Doesn’t say, and he won’t take no for an answer. Something’s bothering him in a big way.

Hazlett closed is file folder and sighed. Send him in, and ask Archie to join us.

Micklejoen, a six footer, was almost a head taller than Archie, Hazlett’s senior detective. He sat down in one of the chairs in front of Hazlett’s desk. Archie stood close by. His hair was grey and his light blue eyes stood out in his thin pale face and did most of the talking for him. His large lips suited him perfectly for his profession. He studied Haslett for a few seconds and was intrigued by the war pictures on the wall behind Hazlett’s desk, particularly the one the Lancaster, with Hazlett and the crew from his first Lancaster.

My name is Hadrian Micklejoen, president of the World Society of Astrologists, which will be holding its annual gathering at The Gladstone. He paused at this point to look Hazlett over. Before leaving London, I received this letter in the mail today, threatening me with death if I fail to pay the sender 100,000 pounds within the next four days. His hands shook as he reached into the inside pocket of his blazer and handed it to Hazlett. Hazlett opened it carefully and reads the message. He shook his head and handed the letter to Archie, who scanned the contents in less than a minute.

There is no indication how they expect you to pay them, said Hazlett.

Just moments before we left for the airport, I received this one, he added, pushing a folded piece of white paper across the desk to Hazlett, who nodded as he read it. If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Micklejoen, what do you plan to do about it?

"I’m going to call their bluff. That’s why I’m here. I would your constabulary to provide 24-hour protection for me. This way you’ll be able to quickly nab them in case they have some surprises in store for me.

Hazlett sat back in his chair. This is a small constabulary, Mr. Micklejoen. We don’t have enough constables to guard you night and day while you’re here but we will do everything in our power to protect you on those times you might be most vulnerable, and, hopefully, find out who’s behind it.

Micklejoen cleared his throat. He caught Hazlett’s eyes and held them for almost a minute. This is not what I was expecting, Inspector Hazlett. I have no wish to go over your head, but I shall if need be. My wife is frightened out of her wits. She didn’t plan to come to this year’s gathering but after the letters came, she no longer felt comfortable staying by herself.

I understand fully, Mr. Micklejoen. In the meantime, Archie will be spending the next four days with you, investigating the most likely suspects, and attending all your sessions.

Archie drove Micklejeon back to The Gladstone, where workmen were setting up exhibits. Hugh Gatewood, the Gladstone’s owner, was standing with his hands on his hips, and talking to Alf Harris, the train station master, who was supervising the work for Gatewood.

Alf looked at Micklejoen and Archie. What are you here for?

Just curious, said Archie. Never been to an event like this before. Besides, I’ve always been fascinated by astrology.

A lot of hocus pocus, as far as I’m concerned, but don’t let Micklejoen know. He’s a tough nut to deal –

Not that way, you idiot, Micklejoen shouted at one of the workmen.

What’s the problem? said Alf.

Your crew won’t hoist the welcome sign.

It’s the wires attached to the sign. They’re frayed and may suddenly let go and kill anyone beneath it if the wires snap, said Gerry Watkins, a member of the crew.

Alf looked back at Micklejoen. What about it?

Utter rot. They’ve been like this for years and never had a problem. I want that sign in place within the hour. And no back talk or I’ll find someone else who knows how to follow orders.

Alf, who had a grey beard and snapping blue eyes, liked to play with rude people. He shook his head. You don’t need me. You won’t listen to common sense and treat us as fools. We don’t need it. We didn’t risk our lives in the war to tolerate bullies like you. Alf had been top gunner on Hazlett’s second Lancaster.

What’s wrong with you people? All I ask is that you hoist the welcome sign. Just do that and you’ll make me a very happy man.

If anything does go wrong, we want you to know that you will be totally responsible, should it fall on someone. Alf produced a small black book from his inside pocket, wrote down a statement in which Micklejoen would accept full responsibility for any damages, and had Micklejoen sign it, along with the date and time.

Remind me never to hold our meetings at this hotel ever again. You haven’t heard the last of this.

Alf wouldn’t let it go. Why are you here then?

It’s really isn’t your business. We were invited to join the British Council of Astronomers, which is holding its annual meeting here. It appears that your night sky is ideal for them. Otherwise, you couldn’t pay me enough to stay here." Micklejoen turned and headed for the elevator.

What are you smiling at? said Gatewood. And that’s just a preview of what we can expect from him over the next four days.

Archie ran after Micklejoen. Hold the elevator.

Micklejoen’s room was the penthouse on the eighth floor. Micklejoen unlocked the door and introduced Archie to his wife, who was watching TV.

There was a small item about the astronomers on the tube but nothing about the society.

Micklejoen ignored her. Mr. Ridley is senior detective with the Gladstonbury Constabulary. He knows all about the letters. He’s here to protect us and find out who’s behind all this.

Faith rose and shook Archie’s hand. Thank you for coming, detective. We feel so vulnerable. So is Hadrian, even if he won’t admit it. She sat and looked up at him. Sit beside me and tell us what we need to do.

Can I offer you something, detective? said Micklejoen, walking to the large liquor cabinet on the other side of the room and opening the cabinet door. He studied the selection before withdrawing a bottle of Scotch.

Before we do anything, Mr. Micklejoen, we should chat a bit about those letters. Archie accept the Scotch and let it sit on the middle of the end table in front of him.

Micklejoen stuck his forefingers into his glass and licked the Scotch.

If you had to guess, Archie began, who would you say sent the letters?

I’m not sure. Like all successful men, I have enemies jealous of my success.

In your society?

Micklejoen nodded.

Can you provide me with a list of the most likely?

Micklejoen took a big mouthful of Scotch and twisted his face as he swallowed it.

Your clients? How many do you have? And what about them?

I’d say over 100 clients. A handful lost money. I can provide a list of them as well, if you wish. Anything else?