Chapter 1
“War hero killed in Faslane! Navy headquarters burned to the ground. Read all about it! German involvement suspected!” shouted numerous newsboys as Mortimer Wolff walked to work. While he walked he tossed a newsboy a shilling and received a paper in return. Ignoring the paperboy’s thanks, he walked off and sat on a street bench to read the paper. Reading it however was at the moment beyond him. The pounding in the back of his head increased as he tried to read. Sighing in disgust Mortimer pulled his hat lower to block out the sun, tucked the paper under his arm, and trudged along to his work.
The son of a minister at Whitehall, Mortimer had for the past 5 years worked as a police officer in London. At the beginning of his career, Mortimer had quickly risen through the ranks. However according to some a divorce and the pressures of work caused his drinking problem which had always been there to skyrocket. In what seemed to his hung over brain as much too long, Mortimer finally arrived at the headquarters of the London police force. As he walked in, the various secretaries and officers he passed looked up from their work and shook their heads. The office workers and especially his fellow police officers treated him with contempt and disdain. He liked few of them and trusted none of them. All would like to see him fall, albeit for different reasons. The officers thought of him as a stain upon their honor while the office workers disliked him for the many reports his activities made them file and the contempt with which he treated those under him. The office was a whitewashed building of three stories. It was usually bustling with activity as Glasgow’s crime rate was among the highest in Britain. As he walked in Mortimer hung his coat on the rack and walked toward his desk at the back of the first floor nearest to the window with the draft. As he began to get set up for work as best he could when hung over, he heard the shuffle of footsteps toward his desk. Mortimer looked up with a grimace at the light and than groaned in his head as he noticed who had come to visit, Rupert Makepeace, Chief of Police.
Makepeace was in Mortimer’s eyes an idiot. His preoccupation with rules, regulations, and other forms of red tape had chafed with Mortimer’s pragmatism. After one case when Rupert had gotten Mortimer demoted because he had not waited for a warrant to arrest a man who they both knew was guilty of murder, and who later went on to terrorize Glasgow for the next month before being caught. After that incident Mortimer and Rupert’s relationship which had never been very stable became utterly abysmal. Rupert made Mortimer’s life a living hell while Mortimer used his contacts in the government to put continuous pressure on Rupert. It was a game the two of them played, sadly the favors Mortimer could call in lessened over time, while Rupert’s influence in Scotland Yard remained as strong as ever. They rarely ever exchanged more than a glare and some sharp biting comment today however was different.
“Good morning Mortimer. How have you been? Good I hope.” said Rupert, although his expression and tone made it obvious that he most definitely hoped otherwise. Rupert sniffed the air and his face lit up, “Drinking before work again Mortimer?” He looked as if he was going to continue with some other smart remark but Mortimer; tired of Rupert’s games, cut him off.
“Yes,” said Mortimer, “I do it to celebrate that I’m not a useless pencil pusher who sits behind a desk all day.” He wasn’t usually that blunt with Rupert but his throbbing headache overrode what little common sense he had left this morning. However it didn’t produce result Mortimer had been expecting. Instead of anger, Rupert just smiled and continued on.
“We’ll see who’s so smug Wolff when you look at the report I’ve had drafted. I have decided that you deserve one more chance. If you can catch the man who killed Colonel Cathcart you’ll remain on the force if not….” Rupert let it hang in the air before handing Mortimer the case file and walking off whistling a cheery tune.
“But..but..but you can’t do that!” Mortimer yelled not caring about who in the little office he disturbed.
“Can’t I?” said Makepeace, “I was under the assumption that drinking on the job as well as that mess in east side a few weeks ago would be more than enough evidence to throw you out? Was I wrong?!” He slammed his fist down on the desk making it shake, he then let the comment hang, and as usual had the last word. The look of contempt on Makepeace’s face combined with the shock of his words was almost a physical blow in Mortimer’s mind he took a step back.
“You’re a disgrace to the force Mortimer,” said a fellow officer from across the room. His name if Mortimer remembered right was Gary. He was the son of some higher up in the government. He’d been on the force for only six months, and in those months had made himself a nuisance to Mortimer by reporting Mortimer’s violations to Makepeace whenever Mortimer crossed the line, “You’ve had this coming for a long time.”
“Gary you bastard, you haven’t been working here long enough to say a “long time”. You’re just a kid in an adult’s world. You’ll be lucky to survive another year. I’ll be lucky if you don’t.”
“That’s funny coming from a drunkard about to be fired,” replied the younger man savagely. His features took on a look of grim satisfaction as he smiled. He got up from his chair and walked over to where Mortimer and Makepeace were standing. He looked as if he were going to continue that thought, but he never got the chance.
As the younger man smiled, Mortimer, driven into a rage, threw his coffee still piping hot from the machine into the younger man’s face. He than turned around and stormed out of the office. Gary screamed and fell back onto his desk while trying to keep the coffee out of his eyes. Rupert reached for his .45 and nearly got it clear of the hoister before his second in command Quentin said, “He’s not worth it Rupert!”
After walking the short distance between the station and the small apartment he was renting.For the rest of the day Mortimer looked over the report that his career now rested on. After the first few minutes he realized why Rupert and his cohorts had chosen this case. The evidence was minimal at best. The bullet was a.32 caliber likely fired from a pistol. However because .32 caliber guns were so widely available, it was almost impossible to determine the model of the firearm that had killed Cathcart, though the model of the bullet was Russian in manufacture. With no evidence found by the squad, there was very little to go on.
The only lead was the dead man, Cathcart. After calling a few men who had worked with Cathcart Mortimer found that the man had had very few friends outside the military, and even in it, he was known for his anger issues and his intolerance for any failures that weren’t his own. He was universally disliked by all of lower rank, and even those of higher rank were found to not be very fond of the man. Cathcart had frequented a bar on the west side of London, and so without any leads Mortimer headed there. As he approached the bar, The Iron Horse he noticed that it was a place frequented by very few. As he walked inside he saw that the place was a relatively fancy establishment with a man in a boiled shirt serving brandy, scotch, and sipping whiskey. There were only a few people there a half a dozen at the bar and one table in a far corner. It was a place that men of means went to get drunk and forget how they achieved their status. As he approached the bar, the bartender gave him a look that told him he wasn’t the type of patron that usually frequented the bar. With his unshaven face, greasy hair, and patched trench coat, he stood out among the other patrons, many of whom were in military uniforms.
“I’m an officer investigating the murder of Colonel Cathcart,” he told the bartender as he sat down at the bar. Putting his dirty hands on the well polished glass surface of the bar, he continued, “Anything interesting you’d like to add?”
“No sir,” said the barkeep though the tone of voice said that he used the term sir lightly. He continued, “The man hadn’t been here for the past two months.” He raised a hand to stop Mortimer’s question, and answered it. “And no, I don’t know why. He just stopped coming. If you really wanted to know I’d talk to that man over there. He was Cathcart’s adjacent.” The bartender pointed to quite a large man sitting over at the far most table talking and laughing with a couple of friends. One was a tall man with copper colored hair; the other was a relatively short man in a fancy suit. Their thick accents left no doubt of their countries of origin, well that and their drink of choice. Mortimer had never known many Englishmen or Scotts who favored Guinness, and vodka was also easy to place and just as unpopular as the national Irish drink. As he approached the table the tall read headed man pushed himself away from the table and stood up. In a thick Irish accent he said, “Hands where I can see them.” In the same motion he drew a military issue .45 from inside his jacket and aimed it at Mortimer. Mortimer stopped as if he had hit a brick wall. Instinctively he reached for his own weapon a .44 magnum, however his brain overrode his instincts this time and he slowly withdrew his hand from inside his coat where his .44 rested.
“I don’t want any trouble,” he said as he slowly edged toward the nearest exit, which at the moment was too far away for his liking. The Irishman’s gun tracked him the whole time. The man had had training that was plain to see. Mortimer looked into the deep dark blackness of the gun’s barrel and began to sweat.
“Put the gun away Ross,” said the man in the trench coat. Unlike his companions, the man had a quiet voice also unlike his compatriots his accent was Russian. When the man didn’t move fast enough to suit him he repeated himself very deliberately. “I said put it away Ross.” Slowly, reluctantly, and with hatred in his eyes Ross lowered the gun and set it on the table.
“I am sorry for the unpleasantness,” said the Russian, “Ross takes my personal safety very seriously. My name is Nicholas Gavrikov. I’m a businessman.” As Mortimer opened his mouth to question Nicholas, the Russian interrupted. “And my business here is my business. No one elses.” Although his voice was friendly, Mortimer sensed iron in the man and decided not to press him. There were some men who had that kind of look. It didn’t convey any particular emotion, only that he was perfectly willing to resort to violence if he was challenged. Mortimer paused to sit down at the table before responding. “I’m not here to question your business legitimate or otherwise.” That got a growl from Ross and a slight smile and raised eyebrows from the Russian. While he had decided not to press the Russian on his business affairs, Mortimer needed information and decided to get straight to the point. “Do any of you know anything about the murder of Cathcart? I know the bullet that killed the colonel was Russian made Nicholas, and I want to know if you had anything to do with it.” After saying this he wondered how much of a mistake pressing the Russian hard for information. He had very few cards at the moment, and although he didn’t know what the Russian had, it was probably more than him.
“No on both counts,” responded Nicholas curtly he than coughed as if it was a signal before continuing, “This conversation is over.” The Russian stood up and gestured toward Mortimer before saying, “Ross, Avery remove the detective from the premises would you.”
Mortimer than realized that someone was behind him. He looked around just as a bar stool came swinging for his head. On a normal day his reflexes were more than satisfactory to deal with such a threat. However hung over, angry, and low on sleep Mortimer was unable to dodge the stool; it made a solid ‘thud’ against his head. He fell to the ground in astonishing pain. The last thing he remembered before unconsciousness took him was Nicholas standing over him and smiling while he said. “Your investigation is over detective.”
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