In my writing I enjoy crime novels, I have written a series of books is entitled
Rufus Tremayne Investigations.
The first title in the series is 'Out of the Dunes'
It tells the story of how Tremayne and his team investigate a current murder, but just to make life difficult or interesting, he is handed an envelope containing newspaper cuttings dating back to 1944 and 1963 - Why? he asks 'have I been given these, what am I supposed to do with them?' He asks Redfern Sutcliffe, who replies 'Well you're the detective.'
The second in the series is 'Yachting with Charlie' is now available. Please follow through the Links page and order through feedaread.
You can read the first chapter of Yachting with Charlie following Out of the dunes.
The third novel following Rufus Tremayne's investigations is being written. It's title is A Long Wait.
Now read the first chapter of 'Out of the Dunes.'
A Jaguar, whose colour was indeterminate under the sodium streetlamps, was parked up by the kerbside. Its engine purred softly. It was a cold night, but inside the car the heater filled the cab with warm air. The two occupants sat in silence as they watched the entrance of the Wild Orchid club further along the street. The club’s brightly illuminated sign flashed red and blue in turn, announcing that it was still open for business. It was just after midnight.
Inside the club the music blasted out, making it almost too loud to hear yourself think. The club was occupied almost exclusively by young thirty-something men. The bar area was busy with groups of them, shouting to be heard above the music as they ordered drinks. Many just stood in silence and made gestures to their mates, as they watched the girls on the low stage going through their pole dancing routines. Cheers and shouts of encouragement for the girls to remove yet another item of their scanty clothing, with more cheers echoing around the room as they did; increasing the noise level to an ear-bursting crescendo.
One man sat alone. He was perched on a stool at the end of the long bar. He neither watched the girls performing nor engaged anyone in conversation. He just held his pint of strong lager in front of him; the glass was almost full. Gerry the barman asked him jokingly if he was making love to it, but he didn’t answer, nor did he look up. He wasn’t in the mood for drinking, socially that is, but it hadn’t stopped him downing several pints. He peered intently into the lager as if hoping that some thought provoking inspiration might suddenly well into his mind as if by osmosis.
He looked worried; occasionally he would suddenly sit upright and look along the bar. Sometimes, he would stand on the stool’s cross bar, craning his neck to look above the heads across the crowded room. Who was he looking for, his girlfriend; a drinking mate? At that end of the bar it was marginally quieter. Gerry asked him on more than one occasion if he was all right. Each time he just looked at him and in a monotone, downcast voice said ‘yeah.’ He took a long draught from his glass, belching the gas build-up from his gut. He then resumed his peering deeply into the lager. Eventually he finished it. He called for a refill by holding the glass up and shaking it from side to side. He then recommenced his deep thinking and peering. I’ll go and talk to ‘im, he’s a reasonable bloke; we’ve sorted things in the past. Yeah, it’ll be alright, no worries. He kept telling himself this, reassuring himself that his problems could easily be put right.
Outside the club, the two men continued their watch. The place had closed. The show was over for yet another night. The punters had gone, but the man at the end of the bar had not moved. Gerry cleaned up around him; only the club’s working-lights remained on providing just enough light by which to do the routine jobs before going home.
‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave now Mickey, time to call it a night and I need my sleep.’ Gerry said. Mickey looked up at him.
‘Okay mate, I’m off.’ Mickey Edwards drained his glass ‘G’night then Gerry’ his words slurred as he climbed down from the bar stool where he’d spent the last seven hours. He steadied himself, his hand holding the edge of the bar. He took his bearings and headed for the door. It was now two o’clock in the morning.
Mickey Edwards stood in the shadow of the club’s doorway; its neon signs and lights had gone out long ago. He looked up and down the poorly lit street. He noticed a car; he squinted at it, trying to focus through his tired, bleary eyes. He couldn’t make out whether anyone was in it or not, nor could he tell that its engine was running. He left his doorway shelter and moved along the street away from the club and the car. Keeping to the shadows he moved as quickly as he could, hoping not to be seen. His plan failed.
The man in the passenger seat of the car, smartly dressed, slim and athletic, touched his partner’s elbow. Without a word he lifted his hand and pointed towards the shadowy figure slinking quickly along the street, as close to the wall as he could manage. Mickey had gone no more than a hundred metres, when the car pulled up in front of him. The door immediately opened. Mickey backed away from the car, hitting the wall behind him hard. He looked intently at the face staring back at him. He tried to focus his beery-blurred eyes, he recognised the face. Then he ran as fast as he could. The car pulled ahead of him again, this time it slewed across the footpath, coming to a halt, blocking his way. Mickey stopped, he began to run in the opposite direction, but the lager had got the better of him, he came to a halt, bent double, panting, out of breath, spewing on his shoes. The athletic man was out of the car before Mickey had a chance to realise what was happening. The driver jumped out of the car, firing a single shot from a small pistol. The bullet ricocheted off the wall just in front of Mickey. He froze momentarily, for a fraction of a second, before turning and continuing to run again.
The athletic man was quickly on him. Mickey was hauled back to the car where the driver stood menacingly by the open boot. They bundled Mickey into the waiting boot. The lid was slammed shut. The Jaguar sped away into the night.
The boot lid was at last opened and Mickey was unceremoniously hauled out. He screwed up his eyes against the light from a powerful lantern being shone into his face. He squinted against the light, while trying to make out where he was. The rough journey and the effects of the strong lager, had taken their effect. The athletic man looked into the boot, and then angrily at Mickey Edwards, but he said nothing. He nodded to the big man who hauled Mickey inside the building. Mickey made out that he was in some kind of workshop; old machinery, rusted and broken lay testament to the industry that once took place there. Boxes and crates that had never been moved for years were stacked against the walls. Almost every window was broken and Mickey could feel the cold wind blowing through them. Chairs and filing cabinets covered in dust and pigeon shit lay in desolate heaps. The workshop had obviously used by local kids for bashes, empty and crushed beer cans and broken Vodka bottles were strewn about along with the odd discarded condom. The big man dragged Mickey into an old office. Facing him as he entered the room, a table stood centrally; a chair had been placed on each side of it.
Mickey was forced into the chair facing the athletic man. The big man stood just behind Mickey. Mickey shifted slightly to try and see him, but was cuffed on the side of his head for his trouble.
‘Mickey Edwards,’ said the athletic man. His voice level and even, not aggressive. ‘I believe you are in possession of some things that don’t belong to you?’ He waited for Mickey to answer.
‘Things, what things, belonging to who?’
‘Come on Mickey don’t be silly now. You just tell us where you’ve got this stuff and you’ll walk out of here free as a bird. What do you say eh?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about…what stuff. If you tell me what it is, I might be able to help you.’
The big man hit Mickey a hard striking blow to the side of his head. It sent Mickey lurching to one side. He cried out, his eyes blurred, and his hand instinctively went to the spot where contact had been made. It left Mickey screaming. The athletic man in mock sympathy continued.
‘Now Mickey, Mickey…be sensible. We don’t want to get nasty…really we don’t. All I want to know is where you’ve put this stuff that you took on one of your little night-time jaunts. Now tell us where it is and you can go and Reggie here won’t have to resort to…’ The athletic man gave Mickey a half smile. ‘Well we don’t want to think about that now do we?’
Time passed, Mickey was still maintaining that he knew nothing. The athletic man was getting more irritated and threatening as the seconds ticked by. Mickey held out for as long as the pain allowed. He thought he would tell them anything just as long as they stopped the beating.
‘Okay…okay’ he spluttered, blood spitting from his mouth onto the table and the floor as he spoke. ‘Okay. so I picked up some jewels and stuff, but I can’t remember which house. It was one I just picked at random; it looked a well-off place. I didn’t know whose place it was, honest. I put them in…’
The ringing of the athletic man’s mobile phone interrupted the proceedings. He stood and took the phone from his pocket. Walking away from the table, putting the phone to his ear he listened, but said nothing for a minute.
‘Okay, as you wish.’ He said finally, finishing the call. He sat down again and faced Mickey.
‘You were saying…well never mind Mickey. It doesn’t matter anymore.
Mickey Edwards was never seen again, well not alive anyway.
Go to the links page to get your copy.
*****
Yachting with Charlie, 1st chapter.
An on-shore wind had been blowing hard all day; the previous night too, accompanied by grey skies and steady rain. It was not a day to be out. The wide sandy beach was deserted, the dunes looked dark, the marram grass flattened against the ground by the wind. The place was empty except for a couple of hardy souls - or maybe they were just foolhardy - exercising their dog. With their bright red anoraks zipped up tight they braved the weather. Their dog appeared to be oblivious to the wind and rain as it raced round and round, running up to its owners, barking excitedly and jumping up at them, begging for the ball to be thrown again.
The tide that night would be a high - nine metres - and with the wind it, it behind it might be even greater. Somewhere out at sea, out of sight of the shore, a rendezvous would take place. The Delphia 37 yawed and rolled on the waves, its two man crew waiting for a signal, but in the driving rain and spray the skipper found it difficult to see the bows of his own boat, let alone a signal from another vessel. The two men on board peered into the rain and mist, their eyes blinking repeatedly, stinging in the salt spray. Their faces were cold and sore, as were their hands. The rest of their bodies were beginning to feel cold too. Their mood deteriorated as the seconds passed, and so did the weather.
‘Where the hell are they? If we can be out in this so can they,’ Gerry Stoker shouted against the wind. His mate Willie Prentiss hadn’t a clue what he’d shouted and simply shook his head and continued to stare into the constant spray.
Gerry lifted his arm, pulled his sleeve back, checked the time - 9:15. He shook his head and his mouth curled down ‘Where the hell are they?!’ he shouted in his mind, gritting his teeth in annoyance and wiping the spray out of his face with the back of his hand. Another hour passed and the weather did not let up. In fact Gerry thought it was worsening and both men were feeling the effects now. Willie had already spewed up over the deck, much to Gerry’s annoyance You’ll clean that up tomorrow, you bugger. He wiped his face again, blinking the spray out of his eyes before shouting to his mate. Gerry crossed the open rear cockpit of the Delphia, putting his mouth close to Willie’s ear, not wanting to shout anymore.
‘I’m giving them another ten minutes and then we’re off and to hell with them! They’ll have to make another date… preferably on a mill-pond calm night!
‘Too right’ Willie replied.
Gerry was preparing to make for home when he stopped and stared, squinting, wiping the rain away, his whole face screwed up as he focused on something. He pointed out over the port side. Willie’s face was the same, straining to see what Gerry had spotted.
‘There… there, look!’ he shouted stabbing his finger at something. Willie raised his hand, giving a diver’s ‘OK’ signal in agreement when he also spotted the flashing light. They manoeuvred the boat closer to the other vessel, a much larger boat, as it tried to maintain its course. Eventually they were running alongside. The waves rose between them, threatening to swamp the Delphia. Several times a line was shot to Gerry’s boat; more that a dozen attempts where made before it was caught.
The swell between the two vessels was really beginning to worry Gerry. He was convinced that he would be swamped. A man was shouting something from the other vessel. Gerry guessed what he was saying and waved and watched a large dark object drop over the side into the sea. The second vessel’s engine suddenly roared at full power, veered away and disappeared into the mist and rain. Willie hauled on the rope. He had the object. The case wrapped in heavy black plastic sheeting bounced against the side ‘He’ll be pissed off when he sees that dent.’ Willie struggled to get the case on board. Gerry was also struggling with the wheel, trying to keep the Delphia head-on into the waves. Willie shouted for help. Gerry left the wheel and it spun wildly. The boat slewed to one side and almost turned turtle, but didn’t. He crossed the cockpit to where Willie was crouching, half hanging over the side pulling on the rope trying to retrieve the case. Gerry grabbed the rope and shouted ‘Pull!’
The case wasn’t that big, but big enough to cause them grief and concern hauling it on board. Gerry had handled much larger cases. It must be the weather, he thought. Or we’re just getting old. The case eventually rested on the deck and Gerry returned to the wheel. Willie untied the rope and threw it overboard. He then struggled to get the case below and secure. At that moment the boat gave one almighty lurch. Seconds later, the engine stopped. Gerry’s mouth dropped open, and he uttered several expletives. He pressed the starter switch again.
Nothing.
He pressed it again and again, each time using more pressure but the engine refused to start. They were now in the hands of God and at the mercy of the waves. Gerry pushed the starter yet again, kicking the bulkhead, clenching his fists and teeth. He turned a full 360 degrees then kicked the bulkhead again, swearing and screaming at the wind but the engine was dead. Willie realised something was amiss and looked up from the cabin towards Gerry at the wheel. Gerry looked down at him and mouthed, ‘the engine’ drawing a finger across his throat. Willie realised the engine had stopped, he hadn’t heard the difference above the storm. He also realised that they were in deep shit if Gerry couldn’t restart it. The boat slowly began to slew round, turning broadside on to the waves. The rolling became pronounced, waves broke over the sides and Willie clung on to the stair rail for dear life. Gerry pushed past him shouting something about looking at the engine. ‘Get the wheel!’ he yelled. Willie took the wheel, but, could do nothing: all steerage was gone. He prayed as he’d never prayed before, repeating Hail Mary full of grace over and over, hoping that Gerry could get the engine restarted. The colour in his face drained, and a chill ran through his body unlike that caused by the weather.
Suddenly a thought struck him, a black thought; the rope, the one he’d tossed over the side, fouled the propeller. Jesus Christ and all the saints preserve us. In that moment he prayed to himself, in what he thought was his final prayer.
The boat was lurching dangerously now. Gerry reappeared. Shouting to Willie and waving to him. Willie clung to the wheel, Gerry to a rail.
‘We’re shipping water!’ he shouted. ‘I can’t get the damned pumps to work or the fucking engine to restart. Unship the dinghy; we’ll have to abandon her, Willie!’
Willie could sense the hurt in his voice - abandoning his precious boat to the mercy of the waves. Willie’s mind was on the rope. ‘If he finds out the cause of this I’m dead,’ He paused a moment ‘Ah bollocks we’re dead anyway.’
‘What about the case?!’ Willie shouted back, pointing to the black parcel that he’d stowed in the cabin.
‘Leave it, there’s nothing we can do!¬... No bring it! Come on let’s get that dinghy overboard! I don’t think she’ll last much longer, it’s our only chance!’
The dingy was launched, and it slid over the stern. Gerry had the rope looped around a cleat. He pulled at the rope and the dinghy came close to the boat’s side.
‘I’ll throw the case to you!. Now go!’ he shouted, nodding his head, his eyes wide as he indicated the madly bobbing dinghy ‘…go on jump!’ Gerry shouted.
Willie hesitated for a few moments, afraid he’d land in the sea and be swept away. Gerry repeated his order. Willie muttered one last prayer and launched himself from the stern rail…and landed in the dinghy. He almost bounced straight out of it into the sea, but managed to grab on to…something. Gerry let out a deep sigh, happy to see his friend safely in the dinghy. He watched him quickly settle. He tossed the case to Willie, who grabbed it and quickly stowed it in the bottom of the inflatable.
Gerry looked around, a final look at his beloved yacht. He looked into the staring eyes of Willie, who was holding his arms out in readiness to catch Gerry. Willie’s head nodded, almost in slow motion, his mouth opened, but no sound was heard.
Gerry took a deep breath, letting go of the rope’s end at the same time he jumped for the dinghy, landing half in half out. Willie grabbed the harness of his life jacket and pulled him inboard. He watched the rope slide out of the cleat as the dinghy moved away from the Delphia. He pulled at it and brought it on board, remembering the last time he’d hauled a rope. After five seconds they were drenched.
They had thought they were wet before, but now they really were. The dinghy bobbed like a cork in the raging sea. Gerry watched the Delphia drift away and vanish from sight. After only a minute it was lost in the rain and sea spray. They’d grabbed the paddles and worked like demons, trying to keep the dinghy head-on into the waves. They had never worked so hard in all their lives. They worked now, because their very lives depended on it.
It took another five hours for the storm to blow itself out. Eventually the sea calmed, the wind died and the dawn broke in a cold grey mist with the rain continuing to fall. Flotsam and jetsam littered the strandline. Two men walked along the beach pulling a hand truck behind them. Beachcombers, making their daily search for useful bits and pieces.
They stopped their search and stood and watched; driving along the tide line, two strange surreal vehicles moved slowly in the shallow water. The shrimpers were out fishing for the local delicacy, in the motorized vehicles that had taken over from the horses and high carts of days long gone, when one would have regularly seen dozens of fishermen searching for the shoals of shrimp. The vehicles of today were built onto the chassis of old lorries and looked like mobile sheds, refugees from an allotment. The rear section formed an open deck of sorts and under the covered part, boilers waited to cook the shrimps as soon as they were brought in.
The two men watched the shrimpers for a moment or two before continuing their combing. Suddenly one of the men shouted to his mate.
‘Hey John… look there.’ He was pointing to something about a mile ahead of them. They quickened their pace. Panting a little, they came to the object of their concern; a boat, a thirty seven foot yacht. The hull was scratched a bit, but not holed. They shouted and banged on it. They thought that someone might be laying injured, but no one answered their calls.
‘Obviously came up during last night’s storm Tom. Best check if anyone’s on board. I’ll give you a leg-up.’
John scrambled on board; he struggled to keep his footing because of the boat’s angle. He climbed down into the cabin, but found it empty.
‘There’s no one in here!’ he called back to his mate.
Out at sea two men lay exhausted in the bottom of the dinghy. Willie sat up and prayed to Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors, for bringing them through the worse night of their lives. Cold and hungry, Willie shook his mate Gerry; asking if he was alright. He nodded then sat up and looked around. He heard a small plane overhead and looked up.
'He’s landing. I don’t think he’s going into John Lennon, so he must be landing at Woodvale - the shore's that way, my friend,' he said pointing toward the light aircraft, 'start paddling.'
Taking it in turns it was a couple more hours before they, with the help of the incoming tide, grounded in the shallow water, and still more than a mile from the dunes.
Willie patted the rubber boat and crossed himself. They looked around, happy to be on solid ground again, they grabbed the case and began to walk.
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