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Midthorpe Mysteries
Category:
Mystery/Suspense
Pages: 144
Copyright: October 3, 2015
Price: $2.96 (eBook)
The first, light-hearted comedy mystery in a brand new series.
When successful crime and thriller writer, Raymond Baldock returns to Midthorpe, the scum council estate where he was born and brought up, he is hell bent on wielding his wealth and influence over everyone for the few days that he is there.
But he has reckoned without romance in the shape of the lovely Lisa. Then there is the mystery of the wheels stolen from his car. And after his demure, divorced mother poisons her boyfriend and is arrested on a charge of attempted murder, Raymond must turn detective to unravel the mystery... and get his wheels back.
Missing persons, stolen wheels, fake pills, a dead body, a middle-aged mother determined to embarrass her son and flaunt her new-found zest for life and love, and a romance from the past, spell out a recipe for comic mayhem in the first of the Midthorpe Mystery novels.
Fiagara Nights is available for the Kindle from Amazon and in all e-formats, including PDF from Smashwords.
Excerpt
Raymond Baldock placed a tube of mints and a small bottle of water on the counter. “I’d like two first class stamps, please.”
Ivan Haigh reached below the counter, into a drawer, came out with a book of first class stamps, from which he tore off two, and placed them on the counter with the other items. He then took a pencil from his ear, snatched a notebook and scribbled down the prices.
“Mints, forty-nine pee, water, fifty-nine pee, one first class stamp, sixty-three pee, one first class stamp, sixty-three pee. Right, chief, all up, that’s…” He ran through them with his pencil, adding up the numbers in his head. “Two pounds thirty-three, for cash.” He held out his hand.
“Two pounds thirty-four,” Baldock insisted.
“What?”
“You have four odd numbers. It’s impossible for them to come to an odd number. They must come to an even number, two nines are eighteen, two threes are six, adding them gives you twenty-four, so the final price must end in a four.” Baldock became distantly aware of a woman customer queuing behind him and concluded his impromptu lecture. “Assuming the remainder of your arithmetic is correct, it must come to two pounds and thirty-four pence.”
Haigh appeared slightly fazed. “What are you? Some kind of mathematician?”
“No. It’s just that when I went to school, instead of secretly skimming through the latest Superman comic during arithmetic lessons, I listened and learned.”
Haigh gazed suspiciously upon Baldock as if suspecting a brazen effort to belittle and defraud him in front of his customers. Taking a half pace to his left, he punched the numbers into the cash register, which gave the answer £2.34 in glowing, green LED characters.
“All right. Two pounds and thirty-four pee.”
Baldock remained nonplussed. “You have a till which can add up the numbers, why didn’t you use it?”
With a broad grin, Haigh tapped his temple. “Brain training, boss. Gotta keep the old mind active. If you don’t use it, you lose it.”
“I see. Well, you obviously have some way to go yet, so keep it up.” Baldock reached into his wallet, pulled out a debit card and placed it on the counter.
Haigh stared from the card, up at Baldock, back to the card, and back to Baldock. “Cash,” he insisted.
“I don’t have any cash on me.”
“Do you know how much profit I make on those bits?” Haigh gestured broadly at the items on the counter. “Not enough to cover what the bank’ll charge me for taking your card. Cash only.” He held out his hand.
A sigh came from the irritated woman behind Baldock. Ignoring her, he concentrated on the young shopkeeper. “Do you know who I am?”
“Nope,” Haigh replied.
“I’m Raymond Baldock. The novelist.”
Haigh shrugged, his face a blank. “So what do you want? An Oscar?”
“I created the Richard Headingley series.”
Haigh appeared as blank as ever. “This gets better. Lemme tell you summat, pal. The only Richard Heads I meet are usually the other side of the counter from me.”
“Headingley, not Head. Do you read books?”
“Nope.”
“But you can actually read?”
“Acourse I can bloody read. I’m not illegible.”
“Merely illiterate.” Leaning forward, Baldock loomed over the smaller shopkeeper. “I am the Raymond Baldock. I’m the most successful man ever to come from Midthorpe. My last novel sold over three hundred thousand copies in less than six months, and it’s already been transcribed for television. I’m worth more than the stock held in this entire parade of shops and I do not carry cash.”
More sighs from the woman behind, and Haigh shrugged as he gathered back the four items on the counter. “No cash, no stamps, mints or water.”
Baldock’s eyebrows shot up. Once more he sensed the impatience of the woman behind him and forced himself to concentrate on the determined minion behind the counter. “I need the stamps. They’re the reason I came in here.” He held up two white envelopes, both addressed in his flowing handwriting, both devoid of stamps.
Haigh deployed his pencil as a pointer and aimed it through the windows. “There’s a hole in wall on the other side of the road. It’s outside the bank which I suppose you own. Go there, draw some cash, or go somewhere else for your stamps. If you can find anywhere else where they’ll take plastic.”
“Now listen—”
“Acourse, if you want to wander round my shop, buy a few more things, get the bill to something over a tenner, I’ll take your card.”
“That’s tantamount to blackmail.”
“I’m not tanting, I’m just saying—”
“Oh, for God’s sake…” finally losing her cool, the woman from behind pushed past Baldock. “Here, Ivan. Two pounds bloody fifty. Give me his change and get a move on.”
“Right on, Lisa.” Haigh took the money, pushed the trivial goods across to Baldock, who took them graciously, before backing off. “You’ll find the post box about—”
Baldock interrupted Haigh. “I know where the post box is. I grew up round here.” With a bleak, half smile of thanks aimed at the woman, he marched out of the shop.
Once out on the broad pavements of Midthorpe Avenue, while attaching the stamps to the envelopes, he quickly learned that he no longer knew where the post box was.
Shops lined either side of the road, from the fish ’n’ chip shop and newsagents opposite, to Haighs minimarket and the Midthorpe Uni-Stylist on this side. When he was a boy, the hair stylist had been a greengrocer and Haighs (run by the elder Mr Haigh) had been a sub-post office, outside which stood the post box.
It was no long there and worse, he could not see it anywhere.
Across the road, further on from the newsagents was the bank, where it had always been, flanked by a tanning salon and another takeaway. On this side, was a bakery, a branch of a national chain of bookmakers, and a butchers, beyond which was a small branch of a national supermarket. After parking his Mercedes, Raymond had been tempted to go in there, but when he glanced through the windows he saw Amanda Armitage filling shelves. He had recognised her, and he was certain she would recognise him. He did not want to be recognised, hence his brisk walk down to Haighs, where, curiously enough, it might have been more helpful if Haigh the younger had recognised him.
As matters stood, he owed a complete stranger two pounds fifty, he couldn’t find the post box and he had no desire to chew on the humble pie he would need if he went back into Haighs to ask.
Standing on the pavement, bathed in May sunshine, he caught sight of his reflection in the hairdresser’s window, and even to himself, he looked like a little boy lost.
His peripheral vision registered a shadow moving across the pavement in his direction. He turned to meet its owner, the woman who came to his rescue in the shop.
Brown eyes under a dark fringe of hair, narrowed on him, her lips, tightly drawn, were ready to give him a piece of her mind, and as she approached, Baldock rehearsed his opening line, but it was with the feeling that she was not a complete stranger. He was sure he knew her.
“I, er… thank you for helping in there. I owe you two pounds fifty.”
“Two pounds thirty-four.” A stern, disapproving reminder.
There was something about those tight lips. Or was it the snug fit of her skirt and the delightful swelling beneath her shining white business shirt, both accentuating a body which was well looked-after. He frowned internally. He valued intellect over the physical, and there was a clarity in those eyes which spoke of someone above the Midthorpe average. Did he know her or was he imagining it?
“We won’t quibble over sixteen pence. If you could give me a few minutes, I’ll go over to the bank and draw some cash.”
“I don’t have a few minutes. I’m late as it is. Largely thanks to you arguing with Ivan. You can catch me at the Health Centre. Counselling.”
He smiled knowingly. “Midthorpe did that to a lot of people.”
The brow furrowed, the lips drew tighter. “What?”
“Put them into counselling. As I said, I grew up here and—”
“I am the counsellor.” She interrupted. “Young Ivan may not recognise you, but I’ll bet his father would, and I certainly do.”
“Ah… Oh… You have me at a disadvantage. I feel I should know you too, but I can’t quite place you.”
“Lisa Yeoman.”
Memories flooded his mind. “Right. Excellent. Of course I know you. The only two Midthorpers to make it to university.”
“From our year,” Lisa added. “You were a proper pain in the arse then, Raymond. It’s nice to see that your fame and fortune haven’t changed you one bit. If you wanted to use a debit card, why didn’t you go into the supermarket?”
“I was going to, but I noticed a woman in there who I’m sure is Amanda Armitage, and considering her reputation, I thought I’d be less conspicuous in Haighs.”
Lisa tutted. “Well, as young Ivan was trying to tell you, the post box is inside the supermarket. It caught fire once too often out here. So if you don’t want Mandy to recognise you, you’d better turn up your coat collar. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
“Yes. Of course. Sorry. I’ll, er, I’ll drop the two pounds fifty off at the Health Centre later.”
But Lisa was already gone, walking towards a red Ford Fiesta, the keys in her hand.
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