No Clown Turned Down

By Mark Abel

A selection of short stories:
In Taxi, a young widow struggles to make ends meet as details of her husband's death slowly emerge and she realizes that it may have been more that a simple road traffic accident after all.
No Jive Clive needs just one break, one big score to escape his dull village existence and his nemesis. Has he got what it takes to betray his gang and live the kind of life he's only read about?
Who can be leaving clues to an unknown murder victim beside the scarecrow? The police are baffled as life on the allotment takes on a sinister turn.
You've probably been told you can never have too much insurance. Well, that's the kind of advise that might just save your life. No Clown Turned Down spills the beans.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mark Abel
• Release date: May 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463200988

Mark Abel

I'm lucky enough to live beside the river close to the city of Chester which is handy as I am of the general opinion that outdoors beats indoors for most activities.Hopefully you have enjoyed some of my writing and may do so again.

Book preview

NO CLOWN TURNED DOWN

MARK ABEL

This book is a work of fiction. All characters and situations are fictional.

Taxi, Scarecrow, No Clown Turned Down and No Clive Jive

Copyright Mark Abel 2019

One more for Gordi

TAXI

I

After several unsuccessful attempts with the doorknocker and then the bell, I let myself in to the flat, using the spare key that he had thrust upon me several months before. I saw his coat was hanging on the stand, and there were several letters lying on the doormat, so I was confident he hadn't been here for a day or two.

Opening the door from the vestibule to the large living room, I knew that the flat was empty, literally empty.

Where once, the few items of furniture had competed with numerous display cabinets, now all that could be seen were empty cabinets and the depressions in the carpet made by the feet of the smaller units under the weight of Ernie's glass collection. Now, of the collection, and indeed its owner, there was not a trace to be found.

A few months prior to this, Ernie, -never Ernest, or god forbid, his given name, Ernesto, - as he insisted I called him, had arranged to attend a fine arts auction in the city centre, with the intention of buying some more ornaments. I had asked him why he didn't just bid for the items on the internet, but he said he preferred to attend in person to catch up with his old contacts, as it enabled him to move some of his collection on to other people.

Always aim to trade up, see? Enjoy the item and then pass it along, it’s far better to have a few top quality items, than many lower lesser pieces

Thinking of his cluttered flat, I wondered where that particular plan had gone astray, but decided not to ask.

He went on to ask me if I'd care to accompany him and help to carry any of his possible purchases, in exchange for him buying lunch for us both.

How could I refuse, I think he was lonely, I was at a loose end, and on the plus side, he never scrimped in restaurants, so on recent weekend days that's often where I could be found, standing in dusty sales rooms and wondering why people could possibly want to buy some of the incredibly unfashionable items.

On one of our sorties, Ernie had told me that he owned a home in France, a villa in the countryside where he kept a lot of his collection, as he was afraid it would not make the journey over the channel safely, and that he planned to return there for the winter, as it was kinder to his joints.

He then got out his wallet and showed me an old, worn, photograph. It was a picture of a small whitewashed hillside bungalow, with a low pale yellow wall running around It.-at least i thought it was yellow, but the picture had the yellow orange hue common to most photographs of its age making it hard to be certain.

There was a woman sitting on the wall, facing the camera, smiling, and shielding her eyes from the sun.

"My wife, happier times, when the world was younger, I miss her every day. We lived together there for thirty years and it holds so many memories that I could never sell and move away permanently.

He went on to tell me that if I ever felt like a holiday, I was more than welcome to stay at his villa, and that he had informed his neighbours of our friendship .

In fact, he continued, I have taken the liberty.... -The smile on his face made me believe he had possibly led a lifetime of taking liberties - I have written to them informing them that you may use the house for as long as you wish, with my blessing. There is a local shop a few minutes' walk away where you can find most things , so, what do you say ?, it would be doing me a favour checking the place over and you look like you could use a holiday.

I told him it was a lovely offer and that I would try to get some time off work.

When Ernie had found out that I too was a widower, I honestly thought he was going to cry.

You, but so young? At my age you can expect it, but you, still just a child

Actually, I'm twenty-nine, but, to him, I suppose I was still young and we probably did look like father and daughter when we ate out or attended art auctions together, with him sharing his knowledge and opinions on the art world from his days in the antique business and me trying to remember the pertinent names and styles.

Now, the room was empty with just dust particles to be seen floating in the light and the noises from the building site across the road to break the silence.

Walking to the window, I saw a coating of dust on the ledge and, peering out, I could see the heavy machinery tearing into the ground and digging deep trenches for pipe work on the old industrial site, as it was being prepared for new homes.

Ernie had been getting himself worked up about the amount of dust getting into his home, and the associated damage it could cause to his collection. When I'd pointed out that only a diamond could damage glass, he told me not to be foolish and to look at the bottom of any old glass vase, he then proceeded to show me one, and sure