Pinball

Chapter 1

You get eight days. If you don’t identify the killer within the first eight days, it’s like handing him a one-way ticket to Paradise. He’s gone!

Those were the last words Detective Nick Posh remembered his pal Chief Inspector Nicholas Montgomery saying just seconds before turning to face the door of the old brew house where all the noise was coming from. It had been the worst eight days known to either of the men; having been thoroughly unable to either identify or even find the smallest of clues that would lead to whoever killed their colleague and friend, Scotland Yard Inspector Oscar Keogh, just days before, eight days before, on Christmas afternoon.

Neither Posh nor Montgomery had worn official looking police clothes when they entered the Sheep’s Heid pub in Duddingston just after the hour of 9:00 p.m. on the last day of the year, the last day of the Roaring Twenties. Posh’s signature dark tan Fedora had been relinquished to guard the dressing bureau, in fact. Policing had to rest. This was a time for clandestine secretive movements and back-alley maneuvers. Scotland Yard and every police officer in all of Great Britain had their eyes and ears peeled trying to uncover anything that would lead them to the murderer, without one single clue to go on; the case was now being investigated by Inspectors at the Yard and their experts.

Three hours had passed at the long solid oak bar. The two men, dedicated to one cause; finding the murderer before anyone else did. They would find Keogh’s killer, and they would make sure the bastard never killed again; he wouldn’t have a chance to take another breath. A pact between them was made. That pact was sealed with the clinking of their drinks mere seconds before the last tick, minute, hour, year, and decade changed.

Upon making these promises to one another, Posh’s ears were triggered by raucous cat-calls; men whooping and hollering in sheer deafening tones. The noise of it erupting in his ears, immediately arresting any hope of hearing Montgomery’s last sworn oath of civil defiance. Whatever it took, whatever had to happen, whoever had to be... and then silence; nothing mattered at that point. The air around him had swallowed him whole, there was simply no escaping the void of it; nothing else existed in Nick Posh’s life except the vision of the delicate, yet strong-willed woman standing directly in front of him. She was a mirage; she had to be. It couldn’t really be her. Not now, not after so many years; and yet it was the only thing that existed. She was the only thing that truly existed.

Hello Nick, it’s me, Elaine. Spoke the one woman who could pierce the tough armor of the man’s heart; armor that had only toughened over the past eight years since they had said their goodbyes on the crowded platform of the Haymarket train station in Edinburgh. Elaine Kemp had promised she would always love and remember her Soldier Boy, an American she knew had been on loan to the Royal Army; who would eventually have no cause to stay in her country. Perhaps she had never considered the day would come, or perhaps she never realized how it would affect her when it did.

Though the two had lived together in what most considered to be a partnership or union, neither Posh nor Kemp had made any attempt to call it something it wasn’t; they were exclusive, sure, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t end. When it did end; and in the way it ended, Posh himself had suggested that the two of them remember the good, and hold onto those thoughts until something or someone else could take its place.

Not wanting to compel the woman to leave her homeland, her friends, family, or her employment as an elite aeroplane stewardess with only upward potential. He saw her for what she was; a valued asset to the industry. He knew in the backwoods of Oklahoma she would have been out of place, a bright beautiful fish out of clear crystal waters, swimming in the murky muddy lakes of Lake Thunderbird. She wouldn’t fit in with the catfish and trout.

Elaine Diane Kemp was certainly going places. As a lead flight associate with aspirations of learning not only to fly but to become a flight instructor; she wasn’t keen on leaving the small yet valid victories she had achieved to become the wife of a newly released military man who had little to no real education or experience in the working world. She believed Nick to be a good man, a solid man, a man who wouldn’t rest on his laurels, but find work wherever he could. It’s just that Elaine had high standards and expectations while it seemed, at the time, the only thing pressing on Posh’s mind at the time he left was to find and eliminate the man who had murdered his father. Leaving her efforts, her successes, didn’t seem fair; she couldn’t do it. Nick at least said he understood.

She guessed he had become something of a law man, though she nor Nick, had ever sent so much as a telegram from one to the other. Chasing hope just seemed to create a certain anxiety which neither of them wanted or needed at that point and time in their lives. She hadn’t read about him in the papers, she wasn’t looking to do so. She hadn’t run across anyone who had heard anything about him either, but she had also avoided two or three conversations where his name had been brought up in the beginning of their separation. Burying herself in study, training, work, and whatever personal goals she could, made the parting almost tolerable; even if it wasn’t.

How did you find me? asked the American, hoping to hear that she had put a bit of effort into the quest.

"It wasn’t hard, not when your name is literally splashed across the front page of every paper and rag tabloid in the entire United Kingdom!" She said with a laugh.

You always did make a splash everywhere you went; you know. Take no prisoners; that’s Nick Posh for you!

She continued, I wanted to find you last summer when I first saw your name as being attached to Scotland Yard, but I had just relocated from South London, having left Imperial Air. It was raw, the way they treated me; I was angry at all men. I knew seeing you would complicate my life further; you always had a way of stopping me in my tracks. I hated that about you, she confessed.

I wanted to forget you. I wanted to go into the horizon with the brightest of lights blinding me from whatever past I had, but you just couldn’t seem to stay far from the front of my mind most days. I suppose I should have been more open about it. I should have been more...honest; to be honest. That didn’t happen. I have to think about you every single cursed day, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it, even if I wanted to.

Her words fading off quickly, as the seemingly strong and emotionally collected woman’s arms fell to her sides, limp and useless. She raised her delicate lily smooth hand to her lips; covering them as they began to tremble, Elaine’s radiant blue eyes began to tear up, to betray her. She couldn’t hold herself the way she had wanted to; the way she had practiced a thousand times should this very moment present itself.

I never got the nerve to say it. I couldn’t bring myself to find the words, Nick. I didn’t have the...

she began crying in genuine, this time leaning forward and into two strong receiving arms that had ached for years to do exactly what they were doing now.

As Elaine buried her head into the man’s chest, he held her. He didn’t know what she was trying to convey, but it was something he knew meant more to her than he would have been able to assume. He never pressed her. He only waited; he held her, and he waited silently for her to continue her report of whatever it was that seemed to pull at her soul. Lifting her head to face him she drew whatever courage she found from within to half-whisper the words,

I couldn’t forget you because you never left. I didn’t know it at the time we said goodbye, but a few weeks later, I knew. Nick, I was pregnant. I know I should have told you. I know I should have sent word, but the thought of pulling you back from such an important task as finding whoever it was that murdered your father, and then, I truly didn’t know if you had found the man and if you had ended his life for it. I didn’t know if you were in prison. I didn’t want to find out if you had been...if you had been...

Her words ended with the question of what she should have or could have done.

Several minutes passed before either of them could speak again. Chief Montgomery had been more than intent to allow the two to have their privacy. Lifting his head to Nick, he indicated that he would walk the few blocks back to his house alone now that the year had changed, and his wife Robin was adamant about him being the First Foot to step across their threshold before his younger brother Mitchell could do so. Mitchell, though a salt-of-the-Earth kind of man, wasn’t particularly bright when it came to most things requiring thought. The First Foot phenomenon had been quite a thing to keep up with in the Montgomery household each year. With a wave of his hand, the Chief pointed to his watch, to the door, and made a hand gesture indicating that he was walking away; his message was received and understood.

Helping Elaine into the newly emptied seat before someone else could move themselves toward it, Posh handed Elaine his handkerchief; telling her it was the same one she had given him days before they had parted. She had her initials monogrammed on the right side. Speaking directly, in lower tones so as to keep the moment as private as possible, Nick leaned his body into the woman, again, taking her silky blond head into his chest, he asked her,

Are you saying we have a kid, Elaine, or did you....

the words wouldn’t come, he couldn’t say it. With a renewed spirit and a muffled laugh, not wishing to seem too independent, lest the man stop holding her, Elaine managed to move a bit, to position herself in such a way so she could look her former partner in the eyes before telling him that he was a father, and they had a son.

The boy’s name was Alistair Yancy Posh. She went on to say that she had lied when at the East Lothian Infirmary for Women, when she had claimed to be married; she didn’t realize at the time that by doing so there may or may not be legal implications. Nick’s full name, Nicolas Yancy Posh had been listed on the birth certificate as being the father; his nationality being American, his heritage being Native American and Scottish and his date of birth as November 19, 1890.

Alistair, repeated Posh slowly, allowing the syllables to roll off his tongue.

You lied? You? I can’t see that. I know, I should be able to give you that much credit, but I just can’t see it. You? You don’t lie about the weather; let alone about being married.

The man seemed to find great delight in uncovering another layer of the woman’s personality that he never knew existed. Remembering once when they had been dining that Elaine had absolutely hated the cod that was served, but that she could not bring herself to lie about it; she merely turned her head when the manager of the small restaurant had visited their table with expectation of praise.

Alistair. You come up with that, or is that someone I should have remembered from your family? the man asked.

Timidly, but purposely, Posh further questioned Elaine, for the sake of everything that would follow. Posh quietly asked Elaine if she had ever actually married anyone, if the boy had a father figure in his life, and if this meeting up with him was just to let him know what had happened in case he had found out some other way. Leaning against him once more, refusing to respond to the calls being directed toward the two of them by every rough and calloused being in the establishment; Elaine gently shook her head and commented,

How could I? Everyone thought I was married. I never told them I wasn’t. I didn’t want to lie again. She teased, and continued,

Alistair, thank you for remembering,

she stated in a faint sarcastic tone,

...is my father’s name. I didn’t want to call him Alistair Nicolas because my uncle is a Nick, so I gave him your middle name; no one else has it that I know of.

My grandfather on my mother’s side is Yansa. I don’t know if I ever told you that. I probably did.

Concluded Posh, as he began motioning with a vague enthusiasm that the two of them should perhaps find themselves on the other side of the head iron-clad wooden planks that served as a door to the pub.

Draping his overcoat over the slender form of the elegant form before him, Posh could only hope that they would be able to return to the yesterdays of before; only this time, he knew it would be forever different. The thought of his end-of-duty lurking heavily in his soul, the man couldn’t bring himself to say it; but it would have to be said soon enough. Just as he found himself unattached eight years prior, without any real attachment that would allow him to remain in the United Kingdom, Posh was about to experience the long goodbye once more. This time, his emotions notwithstanding, he would have three hearts to keep from breaking.

Chapter 2

Posh needed to stay a bit longer in Edinburgh for Fiona Brown’s trial. His testimony as being one of the two men to apprehend her, and the manner in which she was caught, were instrumental to the case. As he strolled leisurely into the crowded courthouse it wasn’t hard to imagine the level of stress and anxiety in a place like that. People’s lives were being decided for them; either by someone they’ve never met, such as a High Court Magistrate, or by an agreement being struck between their own counsel and the one on the opposite side of whatever case it was. Men, women, even children’s lives literally hung in the balance at times by the sheerest of threads. One word, one swing of the almighty gavel, and that was it; finality takes hold of another soul. It was hard to try and put himself into the shoes of anyone going through it.

The only time Nick had been to court back in Oklahoma, was to testify that he was in fact, still looking into the murder of his father Albert Daniel Posh, whose lifeless body was found just inside a bull’s pen on a small ranch in El Reno, Oklahoma. The court had been moved to determine whether or not the cause of death was a homicide. One has to ask if time and money wasn’t unnecessarily wasted in the Albert Posh case considering how difficult it would have been to shoot yourself with a shotgun in the back of the head and then somehow lose the weapon. It was homicide.

Posh surveyed the court room trying to take note mentally of everything and everyone. Behind him and just to the right were several witnesses including Eoghan MacRae, Robert Kirkaldy, Chief Montgomery, newspaper journalist Gabe Hanshaw, and a friend of the murdered man who waited for Paul Norman Macleod to return from buying beard wax at the Wax Works. Laine Straka had waited several hours before reporting Macleod missing. Because of the dead man’s wanton and often unpredictable behavior, neither the police nor Straka felt he was in any real danger. It’s just a friend doesn’t want to have to leave someone in a foreign country if their scheduled flight to return home is within a couple of days. Once the police were notified, it wasn’t long before a telephone tip from an anonymous witness, had seen Fiona and Kirkaldy loading what appeared to be a body into the back of a flatbed truck, a Leyland A1 to be exact. Straka returned home to Buffalo, New York, only to be notified the very next week of the need for his presence in the Courtroom of the High Court. Two trips to Scotland in three months; at least this time he didn’t have to pay for the flight or his hotel stay, courtesy of Scotland Yard.

In front of Posh, and sitting on the side of the defense was Fiona’s husband Herbert Brown, who perhaps knew more about what had taken place than he had let on, but was now willing to try and give some humanity to the woman who most others saw as a crazed maniac with an imaginary ax to grind. It was strongly believed by most that Herbert Brown had placed the anonymous call to Police Scotland regarding the covert disposal of Paul Norman Macleod’s body in the southern Scottish Borders.

Who else could have or would have been awake to witness the comings and goings of the transport? Considering it took place long after closing hours off the Royal Mile, no customers or merchants would have been present. Considering further that the make and model of the truck had been identified; only someone with a bit of automobile knowledge would have even noticed. Herbert Brown, as most merchants in the area were painfully aware, was the owner of a nearly new two-toned 1928 Packard Model 443, a Custom Eight, Five-passenger Phaeton. A car he often referred to as his Baby.

Fiona was being described in the papers as well as by the bailiff’s office in opening instructions as being

"an adult female person, aged 34, Caucasian, of Scottish birth, standing 160 cm, weighing approximately 7 stone, brunette long straight hair with hazel brown eyes, no tattoos, and a scar above her right breast where it appears she had been either bit or injured at an earlier time."

Looking back, Nick couldn’t recall an American court addresser ever making such an elaborate announcement regarding the description of the defendant, but perhaps there were Old World traditions in play that he wasn’t aware of. Thinking over it, Fiona standing 160 cm would put her at five foot and two inches tall. Seven stones weight would have her weighing just under a hundred pounds. To think that this powerfully explosion of a woman could be contained in such as delicate and petite package still amazed the man. When Posh had first apprehended her at the Tron church just days before Christmas, she managed to wrangle her way from his clutch using her strength and incredibly sharp uneven fingernails. She had somehow used his upper thighs as a means to push off of him with both of her feet planted into the man, while they both stood. He had never seen it before; it was something straight out of a Japanese war propaganda film.

As she sat in chains shackled about her tiny wrists and both of her uncovered ankles, she cut a pathetic site for anyone in the audience who was being asked to believe this waif of a woman was capable of creating such drastic and unimaginable physical damage to a man standing over six feet tall and weighing quite literally twice as much as she herself weighed. Yet, here she was, of record, being accused not only of the heinous crime of murder, but with an aggregate count of grave bodily harm with a deadly weapon added. Another count for luring and causing ambush was added to the total charges once more information about the crime had been ciphered from the only post-murder witness known; Robert Kerr Kirkaldy, the man who Fiona had commissioned to dispose of Macleod in the wee hours following the day he was killed.

At some point during testimony, because counsel had mentioned that he would not be called to testify any time soon, Eoghan MacRae left the court room to venture to into the trial of another case being presented on the same floor as the Brown case. Herbert Brown had once been a police informant unbeknownst to his wife; he had testified in chambers, away from prying eyes, that he had overheard a conversation between his wife Fiona and a man calling himself Wade Murray. Murray, the Butcher of the now infamous Rub-A-Dub murder sect, had recently escaped being found and arrested, but not without being seen and witnessed leaping from a dock in Leith onto a moving medium-sized seafaring vessel called the Amber May.

His feat of athleticism all but undermining the belief that the man had walked with a pronounced limp in his left leg. Herbert Brown turned King’s evidence on Murray as well as his wife, the Candlestick Maker, of the same murder group, in order to avoid possible or potential arrest for obstruction of the law when his wax factory had been searched. The man known as the Baker, was in fact Jeffrey Baker, a distant and removed relative of Murray, who also, as Herbert Brown had done, was quick to turn evidence to save his own skin. Baker, not being an actual murderer, had been given a sweet-heart deal of a lifetime; one he could not refuse.

With Baker released and about to be on his way incognito to Spain, courtesy of a plea bargain and agreement, and Fiona Brown sitting in the defense box at the trial, the last remaining Rub-a-Dub killer would be catapulted to one of the United Kingdom’s Most Wanted. Posh, knowing he would soon have to return to the United States, had made it a point and pledge to his British counterparts that the chase would not end; he would continue the hunt for the man, and in fact, he had already begun the chase using telegrams, telephone calls, and word of mouth. At least a dozen stateside agencies were on the lookout for one Wade Murray of North Queensferry, Edinburgh, alias, Edward Sands, an Irish immigrant wanted in now three countries for violent crimes including murder, theft, escaping prison, grievous bodily injury to a police warden, and probably a host of other counts which could be racked up against him is someone took the time to write them all down. Someone would find the time to do it, just as soon as the man had been found and apprehended.

If anyone used the bailiff's method to describe Wade Murray they would have to say he was,

an adult male aged mid to late 40s, sandy colored hair with streaks or patches of grey. Clean shaven or at most a two-day stubble. A ‘crew cut’ or close to the head type hair cut which was topped rather high. Blue eyes which often appeared to be ice colored, the man stands just at 178 cm, or five foot eight inches, and weighing in at 11 stone, or 155 pounds, walking with a distinct limp on his left side. No tattoos or scars appear on the man.

The bailiff called out to the audience in Courtroom C to remain seated and quiet throughout the entire session. There was to be no emotional outbursts from anyone in the room; if there were such behavior, it would be dealt with swiftly and with necessary force. Giving a few seconds to allow anyone to appeal either verbally or through order, the bailiff then asked that everyone take their seats and that counsel for both sides prepare themselves for conduct and processes. Apparently, everyone in the courtroom knew exactly what to expect, except Detective Nick Posh, whose head seemed to be on a swivel; turning to watch one side of the room, then the next. It all seemed so regal, so precise, so rehearsed.

Following opening statements from both the prosecution and the defense; it was made clear almost immediately that there was not going to be much of a defense given for the defendant. She had not pled guilty, but the evidence against her was not circumstantial in that she had confessed while in custody not only to the brutal and needless slaying of an American tourist in the months prior, she had also confessed to a number of murders from as far back as 1924.

Her reasoning, if that's what any sane person could call it, had