Missing on the Mersey: D.S.Einegan, #2

By Ted Knight

 

DS Einegan's first investigation, with its bloody climax has pushed him to breaking point. Hearing of a cancellation on the Empress of Ontario he goes AWOL and buys a ticket to Montreal. On board, an old friend tells him about Patrick, a young crew member who is being badly treated. A month later, when the liner docks at Liverpool Patrick is missing and DCI Wilson gives him forty-eight hours to discover why. He makes progress. Then someone pushes him and he is swept away by the Mersey . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ted Knight
• Release date: Jul 27, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201130626

Ted Knight

About the Author Ted spent his first fourteen years in the rooms behind his dad's butcher's shop near Liverpool docks. He studied Industrial design at Trent, and after his PGCE taught in London comprehensives. He had a varied career working in laboratories, architect's and design offices. For many years, he taught design in London comprehensive before going on to lecture at a Midlands College. Before retirement, because of health problems, he took a job as a security guard, on a quiet industrial site. Ted first started writing during teaching vacations. He has written eight books to date and is currently working on his second collection of SF stories. Missing on the Mersey is the second novel, in the DS Einegan series.  

Book preview

DS Einegan's first investigation, with its bloody climax has pushed him to breaking point. Hearing of a cancellation on the Empress of Ontario he goes AWOL and buys a ticket to Montreal. On board, an old friend tells him about  Patrick, a young crew member who is being badly treated.  A month later, when the liner docks at Liverpool Patrick is missing. DCI Wilson gives him  forty-eight hours to solve the case.  He  makes  progress. Then someone pushes him and he is swept away by the Mersey . . .

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'Our conscientious detective is threatened by his boss and slandered by the press. When a suspect pushes him into the river, he is swept away. . . DS Einegan stars in another tense, in depth thriller.'

(A. Paulauskas - fine artist)

Missing  on the Mersey

By

Ted Knight

Published by: tedknight.co.uk

2022

Copyright © 2022 by tedknight.co.uk

Cover and internal design © Ted Knight

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems – except in the case of brief quotations in articles or reviews – without permission in writing from its publisher, tedknight.co.uk.

All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. I am not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

This book is dedicated to Jim

Acknowledgments

A big thank you to the following:

My wife Ellen, who encouraged me from the start with patience and understanding.

My friend Honor Rawding who showed interest in my project from the early stages. Her knowledge of the genre helped me to get started.

My friend Alf Paulauskas who encouraged me with positive comments.

My friend Graham Hall, former Detective Inspector, who answered my many questions.

My friend Shaun who read my first chapter and gave me encouragement.

Finally, all the selfless authors and editors who found time to create helpful online articles and videos. 

Contents

Acknowledgments...........................6

Chapter One...............................12

Chapter Two..............................26

Chapter Three.............................41

Chapter Four..............................48

Chapter Five..............................54

Chapter Six...............................62

Chapter Seven.............................71

Chapter Eight..............................77

Chapter Nine..............................86

Chapter Ten...............................95

Chapter Eleven...........................102

Chapter Twelve...........................110

Chapter Thirteen..........................120

Chapter Fourteen..........................133

Chapter Fifteen...........................141

Chapter Sixteen...........................153

Chapter Seventeen.........................163

Chapter Eighteen..........................174

Chapter Nineteen.........................183

Chapter Twenty...........................193

Chapter Twenty-One.......................200

Chapter Twenty-Two......................211

Chapter Twenty-Three.....................219

Chapter Twenty-Four......................226

Chapter Twenty-Five.......................235

Chapter Twenty-Six.......................248

Chapter Twenty-Seven.....................258

Chapter Twenty-Eight......................269

Chapter Twenty-Nine......................277

Chapter Thirty............................287

Chapter Thirty-One........................303

Chapter Thirty-Two........................310

Chapter Thirty-Three.......................315

Chapter Thirty-Four.......................319

Chapter Thirty-Five........................329

Chapter Thirty-Six.........................338

Chapter Thirty-Seven......................351

About the Author..........................357

Other books by Ted Knight:.................358

Chapter One

A westerly Atlantic wind, sent wisps of November cloud scurrying through the diffused grey light. Far below the vapours, the sea stretched out like a grey sheet, spotted with white pinpoints. At the water’s surface, waves' crests surged, guided by unseen forces. In the distance, a liner appeared. It drew closer, and the elegance  of its design became apparent.

After leaving Montreal at eight in the morning, she'd sailed through the Gulf of Saint Lawrence to the Labrador sea. During the three thousand mile voyage, across the ocean, she'd reached speeds of eighteen knots and was due to dock, on Sunday the twenty-second day of November. She was financially unviable; this was her final voyage, with Canadian Atlantic.

A sprinkling of rain was falling onto the ship’s promenade deck, and a solitary passenger made his way to the leeward handrail. Looking pensive he reached for something in his overcoat. Aware of the air's purity, he returned the packet to his pocket, and continued gazing at the horizon.

To begin with it was a normal day; the sun had been shining, as he smoked his first cigarette. Sparkles of blue light, had filtered through the window of his penthouse overlooking the Irish Sea. Although, Joan had asked him to her party, on the second floor, he didn't have enough time. He stubbed his cigarette, and made a beeline for the Lotus. Its throaty growl was a definite  improvement on the Ford Prefect he'd traded in.

At work he began tackling his paper backlog. Spaces were appearing on the desk's Oak surface, when a summons made his stomach contract. What was it about? Friday was usually a good day. A month ago, when he'd solved his first case, Wilson had clutched his craved solution uttering praises. Now, looking down, from his gold-framed spectacles, he exuded something different:

Colleagues are telling me, little progress has been made. How long have you had now?

Gauging the effect of his words, he paused.

I’ve made allowances for you. I know you like a drink and a cigarette—a few people do, I'll grant you that. Personnel here are expected to be sharp. Your solved case was a month ago. There's something lacking in your performance. 

He threw an enquiring look, towards his visitor.

Are you out of your depth as a detective? We do have other duties. Time has passed, since the fraternization incident—I'll forget that.

The detective looked resigned, feeling a moment's pity, he added:

Look, you know how it is with Anderson.  Results are needed—and needed quickly. It would be unfair to mention dismissal at this stage—so I won’t—just remember we need results.

He looked down at his papers—and continued in his clipped accent:

I'll be calling you later—you can go for now.

Dismissal? Losing his job was the last thing he wanted. The rent on his penthouse wasn’t cheap, and without income, a hole would  appear in his small legacy. Seeking comfort—he went to Liz’s desk, and found it empty.

An evening's sorrow drowning seemed preferable to introspective mulling. He started with a glass of single malt, in one of the promenade bars, and the following Saturday went by in a haze. By evening he didn't feel well enough for Joan's party, but went anyway. They’d been dancing cheek to cheek; it was getting late. Joan felt something and the guests were asked to leave. Soon eager fingers were fumbling with his belt. When it was over, she moved him to the door hastily. By Sunday lunch, the little pearl of a bar on the promenade, was helping with his cure. He drank quality whisky now, unlike his old mates, in the five pints brigade. They would have envied his penthouse and car, if they'd been around.  Joan  appeared by his elbow.

Joan. Wasn’t expecting you. Would you like a drink?

She remained standing.

Haven't got time. I need to tell you something. Rick was told a man stayed late after my party. He's after someone. If he comes after you—say you left early. That's what I told him. Say that—and our stories will tally. Watch out—he's tough.

Later, Joe took his newspaper, and left his empty glass on the bar. In the washroom, he rolled his tabloid after flagging some interesting headlines for later. An attempt to push the door open failed—it slammed back onto the side of the cubicle. Above a pair of heavy boots, he saw a leather coat, and the red face of a stocky man.

Did you go to my girlfriend’s party last night?

He'd was caught with his pants down, and attack seemed imminent. His sinews tightened defensively, yet he tried to appear calm.

Who went with my girlfriend?

I don’t know.

What time did you leave?

I left early—I didn’t see anything.

Undecided his antagonist paused, before turning sharply on his heel and storming away. Bloodshed had been averted, and Joe sighed. 

Liz sounded bored on the telephone; he asked:

Is that percolator of yours still working?

Near Aigburth, appreciating the engine's quality, he accelerated out of danger; a few miles further on, he parked by a maisonette. The pot of flowers near the front door, looked  bedraggled, compared to his bunch of roses:

Tulips are out of season.

She smiled.

Oh! They’re lovely Joe. What brings my knight in shining armour all the way out to Aigburth?

Already he was feeling better. Taking hold of her, he looked closely into her eyes seeking approval.

I've been missing you. Missing you lots and lots. It's as simple as that.

Mmm, Joe. Was there something you wanted to talk about?

Yes. I've not been feeling great lately. You know what it's like at the station. I'm surrounded by atheists, and it's been getting me down. Wilson took a dislike to me from day one. Right through that bloody ‘Apache’ case, he put my job on the line.  The constant threats—the articles in the newspaper—being pulled off the case at the last minute. Slithering on the lair-age floor—a mad butcher trying to kill me. How did I survive?Stress—it was all stress!

You went the lairage—aged ten was it? Why should it upset you now?

Imagine a boy—watching animals being slaughtered—as part of his education! You dont get used to places like that.

You can't blame him. He was training you to follow in his footsteps.

I know. Customers kept asking me, and I kept saying I’m going to be a butcher. I lied to keep him happy—so many times I believed it.

Understandable, but it couldn't have done you any good.

All my doubts vanished in the slaughter house.

Sounds awful.

Meat was off my menu for weeks. The next time I heard the question, I said—it's a dying trade. It went down like a lead balloon. He was trying so hard to teach me, and I wanted to please him.

Did the visit trigger bad memories?

What?

In the slaughterhouse—when you arrested that murderer.

Not half. Vegetarianism has something moral about it. 

Go for it—tell everyone you’re a vegetarian.

For my first twenty years, I gorged on butcher's meat: roast beef, lamb chops, pork chops, chicken, sausages, and black puddings.

That stuff made from blood?

Yes. My dad used to eat brains too.

Are you joking?

No—sheep’s brains, sprinked with salt and pepper.

Sounds—ugh—disgusting. Ha-ha! Did you inherit your dad’s brains?

We had all sorts of meat. Heard of Bonzo Burgers?

Bonzo Burgers?

A metal plate, on the machine, said Bonzo. The point is—when you've eaten meat for twenty years, you don't give it up easily.

Anyway, everyone knows Wilson’s been funny with you—what were you trying to tell me at the station, when you got called away?

"If the boss doesn’t like you—it doesn’t matter how many regulations are protecting your rights!

I often wish I'd stayed my own boss, in a little shop."

You could have stayed in security.

On a security guard’s basic?

It’s not a lot if you have expensive tastes—it's an important factor, is spending.

Yeah—right.

Joe—stop grumbling—it doesn’t do any good.

I know it doesn't. The problem is—the majority think the same rules apply to everyone—they don’t. There’s a law for the blue-eyed boys—and another for the dockside boys.  I need a break from stress! Not when I qualify with enough days off—now! I’m thinking of doing a runner.

Calm down—you’re doing alright. They’re beginning to accept you—warts and all. You can’t just take off.

Wanna bet?

You’ve got responsibilities.

So what! I’m tired!

Did you ask Wilson about unplanned time off?

Yes. He spluttered something about ungrateful wretches—and being left in the lurch. If I go—my goose could be cooked.

Go where?

Got a cousin in Montreal who I've not seen in twenty years.

Wait until you’ve accumulated days owing.

Look, Liz! My weekend was spent in a type of haze. Do you know how much I've been drinking and chain-smoking?

It's your job. I know our parents used to say health is the main thing—but they didn't have careers. Be sensible—put a request in for desk work.

No. Have you seen Briscoe lately? All that form filling and those low beams are turning him into Quasimodo.

You're exaggerating! It’s not that bad.

My job is being constantly threatened. Any idea what it's like being taken off a case? I didn't give in—I pushed on and solved it!  Is that how he says thank you?

Joe—the ball’s in your court. You worked hard to get out of the slums. The world's your oyster—think of the consequences.

Resentement was threatening to grip him. But Liz had remembered he grew up in a slum—that was something. She noticed his preoccupation. 

My knight in shining armour isn't looking happy—is something the matter?

He didn’t answer.

Go on Joe, what is it? Tell me—maybe I can help.

The aroma of percolated coffee, filled the maisonette; he struggled for words.

"Liz, I may sound like a