MARK KANE MYSTERIES
BOOK THREE
THE BLACK WIDOW
Copyright © 2015 by John Hemmings
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover by Octagon
Table of Contents
About the Author
THE MARK KANE MYSTERIES SERIES...SO FAR
FULL CHAPTER HEADINGS
Preface
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
A Word from the Author
Book One: Forget Me Not
Book Two: Ice
Book Three: The Black Widow
Book Four: Till Death
Book Five: Missing
Book Six: I Spy
Book Seven: A Tangled Web
About the Author
John Hemmings is a lawyer and writer of crime fiction with a one hundred percent record − none of his clients have been executed...yet. Some of his stories are suggested by actual cases he has been involved with, but names have been changed to protect the innocent – and sometimes the guilty!
Each of his books features Boston private investigator Mark Kane, or simply Kane as he is known to most people, and his longtime companion Lucy - a slightly oddball couple with a somewhat unconventional relationship.
"I write for enjoyment − the sort of books that I hope have broad appeal in the mystery/detective genre; the kind of books I like to read myself − and as a family man I write for all ages − the sex private (even private eyes like a bit of privacy!), the language tempered. Take a look at those movies from the thirties and forties: Edward G. Robinson, Cagney, Bogart; the lack of strong language didn't take away anything from the air of menace those guys exuded. Of course, they wouldn’t have talked like that in real life, but then a movie or a novel is not ‘real life’."
"I have used my experience to make the stories as authentic as possible, although these books are intended as entertainments, so a little 'poetic license' is sometimes necessary. As for 'character development', this is a series told in real time. While each book is a standalone story, as my readers progress through the books more is gradually revealed about my protagonist and his sidekick. My readers sometimes ask me what Kane & Lucy look like; but as to their physical appearance well, that's the beauty of books over movies - they look just like each reader imagines they look."
To contact the author, please visit http://johnhemmings.net/contact
THE MARK KANE MYSTERIES SERIES...SO FAR
‘Yesterday upon the stair, I met a man who wasn’t there’
– William Hughes Mearns
For Adora
FULL CHAPTER HEADINGS
Chapter One: Paradise Lost
Chapter Two: Fragrant Harbor Revisited
Chapter Three: A Flying Visit
Chapter Four: Westlake
Chapter Five: My New Assistant
Chapter Six: The Investigation
Chapter Seven: Clark
Chapter Eight: The Dutchman
Chapter Nine: The Medical Examiner
Chapter Ten: The Café
Chapter Eleven: Cary
Chapter Twelve: Paul
Chapter Thirteen: Olongapo
Chapter Fourteen: Gary
Chapter Fifteen: The Watch
Chapter Sixteen: The Suitor
Chapter Seventeen: The Big Picture
Chapter Eighteen: The Firehouse
Chapter Nineteen: The Receipt
Chapter Twenty: Some Good News
Chapter Twenty One: The Release
Chapter Twenty Two: The Early Birds
Chapter Twenty Three: Cathedrals and Crocodiles
Chapter Twenty Four: The Fat Lady
A Word from the Author
The Mark Kane Mysteries Series
Book One: Forget Me Not
Book Two: Ice
Book Three: The Black Widow
Book Four: Till Death
Book Five: Missing
Book Six: I Spy
Book Seven: A Tangled Web
Preface
In writing this series I think it only fair to acknowledge my debt to that master of the detective genre, Raymond Chandler. Whilst I could never hope to produce narratives of such accomplishment, nor produce such a memorable hero as Philip Marlowe, in writing this series of novels I have nevertheless tried to be true to Mr. Chandler’s concept of what a private detective novel should comprise. I have adopted his famous guidelines, not simply because I admire him as a peerless writer of private detective crime fiction but because I believe they truly encapsulate everything that a good crime novel should be, namely:
It should be credibly motivated, both as to the original situation and the dénouement.
It should be technically sound as to the methods of murder and detection.
It should be realistic in character, setting and atmosphere. It must be about real people in a real world.
It should have a sound story value apart from the mystery element: i.e., the investigation itself must be an adventure worth reading.
It should have enough essential simplicity to be explained easily when the time comes.
It must baffle a reasonably intelligent reader.
The solution must seem inevitable once revealed.
It should not try to do everything at once. If it is a puzzle story operating in a rather cool, reasonable atmosphere, it cannot also be a violent adventure or a passionate romance.
It must punish the criminal in one way or another; not necessarily by operation of the law, but if the detective fails to resolve the consequences of the crime, the story is an unresolved chord and leaves irritation behind it.
It must be honest with the reader.
As for the hero, Chandler also had firm views. The morality of the detective is paramount. In his essay, ‘The Simple Art of Murder’, he wrote: ‘Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective in this kind of story must be such a man. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honor – by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any
world’.
If Mr. Chandler were alive today it is doubtful that he would be impressed by my clumsy attempts at writing crime fiction, but I hope he would be satisfied with my attempts to carry on a fine tradition.
Chapter One
Paradise Lost
Lucy lay on her back on the white sand, her legs in the water, the gentle surf tickling her toes. She was facing due west and marveling at the most beautiful sunset she’d ever seen, or ever remembered seeing. It was the kind of sunset that only Thailand could produce, she thought. She’d always assumed that the pictures in the vacation brochures had been photo-shopped, but day after day she’d been proved wrong.
Koh Samui. The very name sounded exotic; better than Samui Island, which is what the name meant. As a barely perceptible warm breeze washed over her she could feel a slight burning sensation on the skin of her arms, her shoulders and her face. She’d need to keep out of the sun tomorrow or she’d look like a tomato, but she had the type of skin that tanned well and if she was careful she wouldn’t peel. Anyway, tomorrow she was off to see the elephants. She’d be traveling by taxi and she’d be shielded from the sun in the forest.
She felt a million miles away from the mausoleum, which is how Lucy thought of the office where she worked back home. The office had no windows so there was nothing to look at except the four walls. Kane told her it was ideal; if she had a window to stare out of she’d only end up daydreaming. It was alright for Kane and the others who used it as their professional headquarters, because they hardly ever went there. That was good in a way because it meant she was effectively her own boss, even though the name board outside the office described her as the secretary, but mainly bad because she was so isolated. Lately she’d been trying, unsuccessfully so far, to persuade Kane to let her work from home. They could still keep the office and she could go there on the rare occasions that clients attended meetings. And they could still keep the office phone; she’d simply forward all the calls to her home. No-one would know; it was like those call centers where the customer service representatives pretended to be in Massachusetts when they were really in Mumbai. She’d catch them out sometimes by asking them what the weather was like where they were. The smart ones would pretend that they didn’t know because they had no windows. You and me both, she thought.
Anyway, she’d tackle that topic again when she got home. She’d be empowered by rest and relaxation. She wouldn’t take no for an answer this time. Lucy got up and trudged back to the hotel, making slow progress as her feet sank into the soft sand. She walked down to the edge of the water where the sand was firmer and she made better progress. She’d have an hour to get ready for dinner with Suzie and Dale. They’d taken a taxi to Chaweng, which was a twenty-minute ride from Lamai Beach, where they were all staying, but Lucy preferred to spend the afternoon on the beach. They’d gone to Chaweng to do some shopping because there wasn’t much available in the tiny town near their hotel. But Lucy had been with her new friends to Chaweng the day before, on the way back from visiting the Big Buddha at Bang Rak, and she hadn’t thought much of it; a bustling town full of tourist shops and fast food eateries, girlie bars and massage parlors. The town seemed to be full of rather dubious Russians too, and grotesque parodies of sixty-something fat-bellied male tourists with young Thai girls on their arms. Lucy wasn’t a prude, but she’d come for the peace and tranquility of Thailand. Chaweng was too cosmopolitan for her taste, and too busy and noisy as well.
She’d been so lucky to meet Suzie and Dale. If it wasn’t for them she wouldn’t be here at all. She’d met them in Phuket where she was supposed to be spending her entire two week vacation. They’d met on her third day, by the hotel swimming pool, and exchanged tales of disillusionment with the place. Not the hotel, which was nice enough, but the island. It wasn’t what she expected at all. Her vacation had started inauspiciously by being ripped off by the taxi driver who drove her from the airport and tried to persuade her to go to a different hotel; and things had got worse from then on. The beach, which the brochure had described as three miles of pristine sand and crystal clear water had turned out to be filthy. There was a foul stench from a large blue sewer spewing God knew what into the sea, and plastic bags and other debris floating in the water. As she’d walked along the beach she was hassled constantly by locals trying to sell her fake Rolex watches and Luis Vuitton purses. She’d tried the town and found rows of girlie bars, where young local girls repeatedly called out to the male tourists: “Hi sexy” or “Hi handsome man” in a sometimes successful attempt to part them from their money, or worse. But the thing that had amazed her most was that everything seemed to be in Chinese. Chinese signs, Chinese tour guides waving little Chinese flags ahead of groups of Chinese tourists. There were brochures at the hotel reception for local events. The brochures were written in Chinese.
Lucy had expressed her disappointment with Phuket to Suzie and Dale, who were fellow American tourists, during a casual conversation by the poolside, and the two of them had agreed that it left a lot to be desired.
“It’s not my favorite place, but Suzie wanted to see it so we came anyway,” Dale said.
Dale had lived in Asia for several years. He was based in the Philippines, having left the States a few years before to see the world. He liked Asia and decided to settle in the Philippines, but because he was on a tourist visa he had to leave frequently.
“Basically I can stay for a month without a visa,” he said, “then I can extend my stay month by month without leaving the country by going to the Immigration Department; but an extension costs about eighty dollars, and for little more than that I can simply fly to Hong Kong or Bangkok or wherever for a few days and then return to Manila and get another month’s stay.”
Dale had met Suzie in Bangkok on one such break earlier in the month and they’d hit it off. Suzie was on vacation from Sacramento and after they met they decided to stay together for the duration of Suzie’s vacation. They’d been together to Pattaya and then back to Bangkok and then traveled north to Chiang Mai and Chiang Rai; but by the time Lucy met them in Phuket Suzie had only a little over a week left before she had to return home.
“The Chinese are so rude,” said Lucy. “If you’re in a line they just push in front of you; they go through swing doors and let them slam in your face, and they don’t seem capable of talking at a normal volume. At mealtimes they eat with their mouths open, talk with their mouths full and shout to each other across the dining room. God knows I’m not a racist,” said Lucy, “but pul-ease.”
Dale laughed at Lucy’s frustration. “I know Lucy, but you have to understand, due to the speed at which China’s developing most of these tourists have gone from being peasants to being very wealthy in the space of a few years. They haven’t had a hundred and fifty years to make the transition from working-class to middle-class, so you have to make allowances. And you can’t blame the Thais for accommodating them because they probably spend a lot more than all the other tourists put together.”
“Dale and I are planning to fly to the other side of the peninsula,” Suzie said. “He says it’s much nicer in Koh Samui. Why don’t you come with us? I’m sure you’ll like it a lot better there.”
And so that’s what Lucy had done. She had to risk losing the money that she’d already paid for her room, but she emailed the internet travel company through whom she’d booked the hotel and made a complaint that she’d been misled about the resort, so she hoped to get something back. Anyway, she wasn’t going to bite off her nose to spite her face. She wanted to make the most of the time she had left. The three of them had taken the short flight to Koh Samui the following day, and for the past six days had spent most of their time together. As Lucy strolled along the beach, the warm water licking her ankles, she passed a small thatched beach café and decided she had time for a fresh coconut juice. She looked out over the sea at the sun sinking behind the horizon and thought back over the past few days.
Lucy had assumed
that once they got to Samui they’d go their own ways, but Dale and Suzie were having none of it. Dale had chosen the hotel and got them a great deal, his years in Asia having made him an expert in bargaining; and since arriving in Samui they’d been almost inseparable. Lucy had been worried about playing gooseberry at first, but both Suzie and Dale had made it clear that they enjoyed her company. They’d hired a jeep and driven around the entire island and visited the grandmother and grandfather rocks, so called because the rock formations looked similar to male and female genitalia, which had Lucy and Suzie in fits of laughter. They’d visited a temple with a mummified Buddha in a glass case, incongruously wearing sunglasses to conceal the empty eye sockets. They’d stopped at a local restaurant, on the southern tip of Samui, and eaten gorgeously fresh seafood at local prices. They’d snorkeled and raced around on jet-skis, and been sea-fishing on a local boat before dawn. It had been a whirlwind of sun and fun and Lucy had become really fond of her new friends. Suzie was a few years younger than Lucy but they’d become almost like sisters during the past week.
Lucy reached the hotel, which was set back from the beach, and went up to her room. None of the hotels in Lamai were more than three stories, and Lucy’s was on the second floor. The room was furnished simply with traditional Thai furniture. The bedroom had a king-size four poster, and there was a sitting room and a small balcony too. The room had been cleaned in her absence and a fresh bath towel, cleverly folded to look like a swan, was laid on the bed. She filled the bath tub with warm water and poured in orchid oil, thoughtfully provided by the hotel. As she luxuriated in the tub she thought of Kane. She’d tried to persuade him to join her on her vacation but he was engaged in a kidnapping investigation. As it happened it turned out not to be a kidnapping at all, just an attempt by the client’s daughter to extract a cool quarter of a million dollars from her own father. Now Kane was complaining that he had no work to do. He’d be sitting at home every day reading, she supposed. Kane did a lot of reading in his spare time.
The Black Widow - Mark Kane Mysteries - Book Three: A Private Investigator Crime Series of Murder, Mystery, Suspense & Thriller Stories...with a dash of Romance Page 1
