The Seaside Detective Agency

by J. C. Williams

  “Three-hundred thousand pounds,” said Abby, in reference to an aged landscape painting that was being paraded at the front of the stage. “Definitely no more than that!”

  “No chance,” said Sam. “That’s got to be at least five-hundred thousand.”

  The bids increased and soon surpassed £300k… £400k… £500k.

  “Yes!” said Sam triumphantly, punching the air in celebration.

  “And we have five-hundred-and-fifty-thousand pounds,” said the auctioneer, pointing directly at Sam.

  “Did he just point at me?” asked Sam, with panic in his voice.

  “Yes,” said Abby. “Don’t move a bloody muscle, and you better start praying that someone wants that painting more than you. Either that or get ready to run!”

  Sam scoured the room, willing someone to raise their hand. The man with which he’d inadvertently entered a bidding war was poised, caressing his greying handlebar moustache as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  “Going once…” said the auctioneer, pointing at Sam once again.

  “Put your hand up, you pompous-looking old twit,” said Sam between clenched teeth and a tortured smile. “Please, please put your hand up.”

  “Going twice…”

  Abby moved to distance herself. She wanted nothing to do with this.

  The gavel was about to strike the sound block and Sam could feel the carotid artery in his neck constrict.

  “Six-hundred-thousand pounds!” announced the auctioneer, pointing his gavel at the other bidder who looked, perhaps, like a retired colonel.

  “Yes!” said Sam in relief.

  “Is that six-fifty?” the auctioneer asked Sam.

  Sam waved his hands furiously. “No, no!” he said. “Don’t take any more bids from me!” he insisted, clutching his chest.

  The auctioneer scowled at Sam’s coarse language.

  “For our first undercover operation, this isn’t going quite to plan,” Abby confided. “We would be less conspicuous if we’d arrived riding a pink unicorn with fireworks flying out its arse.”

  “Shhh!”

  “Oh, shhh, yourself,” replied Abby, picking her bag up. “Come on, Sam, let’s get out of here.”

  Sam placed his hand on her arm. “Hold up,” he said. “Over there. Front row, black dress. That has to be Emma Hopkins?”

  “It is!” said Abby, craning her neck, and clutching his arm in return. “Shit, it must be happening today. Whatever happens, don’t let her out of your sight — I can’t see her very well from this seat because of that pillar in the way.”

  “Do we phone the police?” asked Sam.

  “We should,” said Abby. “But we’ll never find the stolen painting. Plus, she’s not actually done anything yet.”

  “The next item has attracted considerable interest,” announced the auctioneer. “A fabulous example of a ninth-century Viking cross. Where shall we start? Three hundred thousand?”

  It was a popular item, judging by the flurry of bids and animated waving of arms by those clutching phones.

  “It’s good, this,” said Sam. “I need to buy a metal detector and find one of those Viking crosses to sell.”

  “You make sure you keep your hands by your side and keep an eye on the front row,” said Abby. “And you do look quite smart. Totally inappropriate. But smart.”

  Sam smiled. “Thanks,” he replied as the auctioneer smashed his gavel down. “Oh. I missed it,” said Sam. “How much did it go for?”

  “One-point-six-million pounds!” Abby replied.

  “Cheese and crackers!” exclaimed Sam.

  “Aw, did you want to buy it?” she teased.

  “No, there’s now an empty seat on the front row and Emma has gone.”

  “One bloody job you had, Sam!” said Abby. “Where the hell is she? Surely she’s not going to be as brazen as to rob the thing in broad daylight??”

  Sam jumped to his feet and marched — noisily — to the front of the room looking completely out of place in his current attire. If not for his earlier interruption, people on the first few rows would have likely assumed he was handing out canapés.

  “There’s no need for alarm,” he said, addressing those in attendance. He turned his right hand above his head, as if he were taking off a top hat. “Sam Levy, Private Investigator, at your service.” He’d clearly been watching too many low-budget detective films.

  “Get off my stage, you buffoon!” shouted the auctioneer, ready to hit him with the gavel for the second time in one afternoon.

  Sam pointed to the cross. “My partner and I are here to prevent a very serious crime. We have credible information that the cross in that glass cabinet is the target of a robbery planned for this day!”

  There was an audible intake of breath, which, being honest, Sam was hoping for.

  “Preposterous!” said the auctioneer. “By whom?”

  Sam was getting into his stride and took a couple of causal paces up and down the front row for dramatic effect. “By the woman who was sat in the front row who has now mysteriously disappeared!”

  “That’s because I’m stood over here,” said a startled female voice. “As I’ve just been to the loo.”

  “Ah! Well! Ah! Okay, then,” said Sam, struggling with his words. “This is, em… this is an interesting development indeed,” he added, attempting to keep hold of what little dignity yet remained. He lowered his right hand just in time to watch Abby skulking toward the exit at the rear of the room. Sam thought about running too, but the auctioneer was stood in front of him, snarling.

  It couldn’t get much worse as Sam took a step back. “We… or I, as it would now appear,” he said, attempting to explain himself. “Have it on good authority that the woman over there, as it were, Emma Hopkins, was primed to steal the artefact in question on this very afternoon.”

  “Steal it, you ignoramus? She’s not trying to steal it!” shouted the auctioneer, taking a step closer to Sam — who was faltering by the second.

  Sam’s voice was now breaking. “How… how, do you know that?”

  “How do I know?” the auctioneer repeated like a sanctimonious parrot. “How do I know? I know she wasn’t going to steal it because she’s the one who’s bloody selling it!”

  The blood drained from Sam’s face as a cold sweat ran down his back. He stammered, but he was like a boxer swaying after receiving a volley of uppercuts.

  One man in attendance had apparently seen enough. Smartly dressed in a navy suit with an open-necked shirt, the unidentified man picked up his brown leather briefcase and walked discreetly for the exit, taking his phone from his inside pocket as he did so. Once outside and believing himself to be out of view, he stood outside the museum entrance and lit a cigarette as the phone dialled out.

  “It’s me,” he said in a gruff voice. He listened for a moment, taking a drag. “Yes, it’s her,” he said. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  He took a couple steps forward before speaking again. “I understand, Mr Justus,” he said, blowing the contents of his lungs skyward. “I’ll get it back, yes. And the only way she’ll be leaving this island is in a box.”

  Chapter Four

  Staying Alive

  T his is a new low, even for me,” said Sam, stomping along Douglas Promenade on the way to Abby’s car. “I’ve been thrown out of most places, but a bloody museum? That’s got to be a first.”

  Abby was failing to stifle her laughter. “I’m sorry for leaving, but it was just so awkward I couldn’t watch any longer.”

  “It wasn’t exactly a walk in the park for me, either! They all started laughing at me when they realised I wasn’t some sort of cabaret act. One woman on the front row thought I was a magician at one point.”

  Abby bit her bottom lip. “Where’s your bowtie?”

  “He’s got it. The bloody auctioneer. He grabbed hold of it and tried to use it like a dog lead to drag me out. I had the last laugh because it was on elastic and snapped in his face. Anyway, now who was the guy
with the cigarette you mentioned?”

  Abby grabbed her phone. “I stood outside waiting for you when a guy walked out shortly after. I got this photo of him, but it’s not the clearest. He was on the phone and I overheard him say someone — a woman — was going to be going home in a box. And not only that, but…”

  Dramatic pause.

  “Out with it, woman!”

  “Before he hung up…” she continued, after sufficient time as to ensure Sam was fit to burst. “…he called the person…”

  Sam could feel the lower half of his body twitching. It was near to starting another piss-dance.

  “… Mr Justus.”

  Sam stopped dead in his tracks. “Holy hand grenade, they have to be talking about Emma Hopkins.”

  “Correct,” said Abby. “It would seem that Mr Justus is not only employing us but this chap as well,” she added, pointing at the image captured on her phone. “But the only difference is, we’re not trying to get her killed. We need to let her know!”

  Sam scowled. “The last person she wants to see is me, especially as I’ve just stood in front of a packed room accusing her of something she didn’t do.”

  “She will…” Abby said.

  Dramatic pause.

  “… If she wants to stay alive.”

  “You know, that was good,” said Sam. “I do have to admit.”

  “What was?”

  “That if she wants to stay alive bit. You’ve really got this down to an art, Abby. All that was missing was the dern-da-dern-dern deeeern tune to finish it off.”

  “Thanks!” Abby grinned. “And how did Emma take it, by the way? The whole accusation thing, I mean.”

  “Oh, yes, she was delighted. Thrilled, in fact. She was especially receptive when I emptied the contents of her bag on the floor looking for something incriminating?”

  “Looking for what, a crowbar or a black bag with SWAG written on the side?” said Abby, sarcastically.

  “I don’t know. I panicked because I could see the security guards running towards me and it was the only thing I could think of doing.”

  “How far away have you parked?” asked Sam. He looked like he’d stayed out all night and was on his way home doing the ‘walk of shame’ with a stinking hangover, since, as a result of being wrestled to the floor by several security guards and assaulted by the auctioneer, Sam was looking rather dishevelled with his jacket pocket ripped and scuffed suit trousers.

  “We’re close now,” Abby told him.

  “You’re right, Abby, by the way,” said Sam. “We need to tell Emma that her life is in danger.”

  Abby nodded. “That guy looked pretty mean. Like a mafia stereotype.”

  “But he hasn’t reckoned on Sam Levy, has he?” Sam swelled his chest up like the tide. “You’ll be okay, Abby, I’ll look out for you,” he added, throwing his jacket casually over his shoulder. He didn’t have a firm enough grip on the collar, however, and it slipped from his fingers, with the jacket falling to the promenade floor and landing flat into a puddle of salty sea water.

  Abby distanced herself as Sam retrieved his jacket, flapping it in the wind to shake the water off. “You know, if you shake it more than a few times…” she began.

  “What?” Sam asked, distracted and otherwise engaged.

  “Nothing,” Abby replied. “I just feel so much safer, is all, knowing you’ve got my back, Sam,” she added.

  Sam couldn’t take offence, not with the look of genuine mirth on Abby’s face and her eyes twinkling like moonlight reflecting off ocean waves.

  “So. That Emma. She’s pretty cute, I think you’re in with a chance there!”

  “She is indeed,” replied Sam, with a faraway look, before snapping back to his senses. “What? Oh. Emma? Ha! Not hardly, I should think. Ruined my chances there, I’m afraid.”

  “One never knows,” Abby replied with her playful selkie grin.

  “I’ve got more chance of getting my deposit back on this suit rental,” Sam groaned, flicking sand off the jacket sleeve.

  Sam sat with his shoes off, resting his feet on the corner of his desk. Abby could always tell when he was thinking because he’d rub his bald head like it was a comfort blanket.

  He tapped his pen on his desk. “You know what I don’t understand, Abby?”

  “Nuclear fusion? Speaking Tongan? Why birds suddenly appear, every time you are near? I could go on,” laughed Abby.

  “Besides those things,” Sam replied, throwing her a look. “Emma is obviously not short of cash and owns galleries all over the world. She sold a Viking relic for over a million yesterday. So why would she be involved in the theft of a painting? It just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “I can think of four million reasons,” said Abby.

  “I know what you mean, but, why would you risk your reputation, career, and possibly your life for a painting? Which is expensive, granted. But if she’s already rich, what real difference is that going to make? We’re missing something here, Abby, but I can’t place my finger on what it is.”

  “I’ll tell you what I do know,” said Abby. “The old man will go mental if he knows we’re spending our time on this with virtually no chance of making any income from it.” She took a compact mirror from her bag, puckered her lips, and applied a layer of pink lipstick.

  Sam had his back to her. “Are you squirting perfume over there?” he asked, sniffing the air.

  “Yep, I’ve got a dinner date tonight,” she replied.

  Sam nearly dislocated his shoulder the speed he spun around on his chair. “I didn’t think you were seeing anybody?” he said as casually as he could muster. “You’re not getting back with Pete, are you? He was such a knob.”

  “I know he was a dickhead, which is why I split up with him,” Abby replied. “I’m just going to dinner with a friend. Nothing serious. It’s just nice to go out for something to eat.”

  Sam squirmed. “I’d, eh, you know, if you were bored one night, take you out for something nice. Not chips, either. Something special. You know. Served on a plate.”

  “On a plate?” Abby chuckled. “Well, then.”

  He screwed up his face. “Served on a plate,” he repeated flatly, then sighed miserably. “What the hell does that even mean? Abby, you can understand why I’m single when I talk to you like that. What hope have I got in the real world?”

  Abby gave him a sympathetic smile. “You’ll find someone special.” She patted his head. “After all, how many men in the Isle of Man can honestly say that they’re a private investigator? The women will be like putty in your hands,” she said. “Don’t work too late!”

  Sam wondered why women would be like pudding in his hands. Sometimes he didn’t understand Abby’s jokes.

  The smell of Abby’s perfume hung in the air long after she’d left. Sam sat at his desk looking over to Peel Beach and the families making the most of remaining sunlight. He felt a bit down, somewhat deflated. He was finally working on a case of substance, but he struggled with a nagging self-doubt. He’d always convinced himself that, given a proper assignment, he’d pull out all the stops. Work never usually got him down, so why was it doing so now? He laughed as he recalled the state of Abby’s face as she skulked out of the museum, looking mortified as he slowly died in front of everyone.

  “Sweet cheese and crackers!” he said in a moment of realisation. “Am I in love with Abby?”

  Sam couldn’t think straight; he thought it was work, but maybe it wasn’t? When Abby told him she had a date, he felt like he’d been kicked in the stomach. He needed solitude, he needed time to think. He picked up his newspaper and headed for the one place where he could collect his thoughts, free from distraction.

  He tried to read the paper but nothing was sinking in, so he just sat, staring at the door. It was quiet. He was the only one left in the office, so he panicked when he heard a vague noise from the reception area.

  “Hello!” he shouted. “Abby, is that you?”

  There was n
o response, but the noise immediately stopped. His heart raced.

  “Abby,” he said once again, but nervously this time. “Very funny. Did your date let you down?” he managed, his voice quavering despite his attempting to sound self-assured.

  There was no response, but Sam could hear the muffled sound of footsteps.

  They were getting nearer.

  “Come out with your hands up!” boomed an American voice without preamble.

  Sam shit himself, which was fortunate considering his current location. He made a noise in response, but it wasn’t coherent — more of a pained wailing noise derived from his sense of abject fear.

  “I won’t ask you a second time!” shouted the voice. “If you don’t come out now, right now, I’m busting down this door!”

  Sam heard what sounded like a gun being cocked. His mind raced: It must be that mafia-looking guy Abby saw.

  “Last chance!” said the ever-more-impatient voice.

  “Okay, okay!” Sam squeaked. “But I’m not…”

  “I don’t care! Open the door! Now!”

  He didn’t have a phone to call for help, and the only way out was the door he had no choice but to now reluctantly open. Sam shuffled towards the door, trousers and underpants around his ankles, and took a deep breath.

  “I’m unarmed,” he pleaded, holding his arms smartly aloft once he’d opened the door and released his hand from the knob.

  Two men stood before him, recoiled in disgust, as Sam presented himself to them.

  “Good god, man, you could have pulled your pants up!” insisted one of the men.

  Sam stood with his arms still above his head. “But I–I couldn’t,” he stammered. “You told me to open the door straight away. And… and I’ve not wiped yet.”

  The two men could see that he wasn’t a threat, and they allowed him to return to the toilet to sort himself out.

  “You’re American?” asked Sam tentatively after re-emerging, the paperwork on this last job of his having been satisfactorily completed. “Are you working for Mr Justus, then?”