Vincent A quantime experience Chris Deggs Science-Art author www.coloursandwords.com 1 This is a work of fiction except for the parts that aren't Published in 2014 by Feedaread Publishing First Edition A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British 2 Library. Copyright 2014 by Chris Degenhardt All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced in any form, or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review. Foreword I looked at the handsome guy opposite me. He put me in mind of Jack Kennedy, as a young naval officer. “So, how can I help you, Mr Goodfellow?” “I need you to carry out an investigation for me.” 3 I had already figured that much seeing as I had Oswald Doyle Private Investigator painted on my door. “Okay, give me the details,” I said, reaching for pen and pad. Then he came right out with it and you could have knocked me for six. “I want you to investigate the death of Vincent Van Gogh.” I almost quipped I do not do cold cases but resisted it. I needed to find out if this guy was for real. “Vincent Van Gogh the famous artist?” “Yes,” he grinned sheepishly. “The one who shot himself, if my basic art history serves me?” “That is the official line - yes.” “And that happened when?” “July 1890.” I tossed the pen onto the desk, and sat back looking at him. “Well, unless you have access to a time machine it's going to be pretty bloody impossible.” He laughed. “Oh no, I don't expect you to carry out an actual investigation. I need your expert advice in carrying out a virtual one.” I'm a pretty tolerant bloke usually and, being an ex-copper, I have met some nut jobs in my time. But this was a first. “Virtual stuff, that's got something to do with computer games, hasn't it?” He looked at me. “I know you might think this is crazy but all I want to do is give you the case and see what you come up with. I will pay you your usual rates and you don't even have to leave 4 your office.” Well, how hard could it be? And I certainly needed the readies. But first I would have to do a background check on Mr Goodfellow. As it happened it wasn't so much how hard could it be, more a case of how weird it could be. I had no idea, when accepting this case, just where it would lead me, which turned out to be Nineteenth Century France. Chapter 1 I came to meet Nathan Goodfellow through a series of seemingly random events. It all began with me spying on a bloke on compo. Martin Skopes didn’t mean anything to me, except my being able to pay the bills for another week. I parked outside 21 Chaldon Rd, a nondescript semi-detached, three up three down and watched 5 from my Ford Fiesta as I took photos of the man filling a wheel barrow with sand. I was bored off my tits but it's what I had to do to earn my fee. I certainly admired Skopes’ stamina as he loaded the barrow for the twentieth time that day. Having got my photographic evidence of the man, without his back brace, I put my Canon away. Another fraud case closed, I thought, as I started up my vehicle. I had nothing personal against Martin Skopes. Down the pub I would probably pat him on his injured back and say, “Good on you. It's about time we got something back from those thieving insurance companies.” But dobbing people in is how I make a living these days. When after some years working there, I took the plunge and left the Metropolitan police to reinvent myself as Oswald Doyle Private Investigator, I hadn't envisaged spending my time as a detective working for big insurance companies, by spying on small-time fraudsters. But that's the current reality of my life. Now I sighed as I returned to my office to write up yet another boring report. Back in my rented, one room and compact kitchenette - office, in East Acton, I glanced at the framed photograph on my cluttered desk. At moments like these I wondered if I had made the right decision. Being a private investigator was not all it was cracked up to be. Feeling somewhat melancholic, I reached for my bottle of Johnny Walker and sat staring at the image of Bill Munter and myself, taken on the day of our graduation ceremony at Hendon Police College. Having passed our exams and become fully fledged probationary members of the London constabulary Bill and I were itching to start pounding the beat. It was a very exciting time for me, with great potential for advancement. But after fifteen years in the job the gloss had somewhat dulled. Long hours, poor pay and an avalanche of red tape finally took their toll. So I gave all that up to become a private detective. I had been a detective sergeant 6 for five years; the job had become less appealing and promotions harder to come by. But those weren’t the main reasons I had left the force to start up on my own in civvy street. Being able to work to my own schedule appealed to me most. Pushing these nostalgic thoughts from my mind, I shuffled papers around on my desk, to reveal a folder marked ‘Insurance Fraud Reports’. More bloody paperwork, I thought, as I searched for a pen. Then I changed my mind and grabbed the phone. There were one or two coppers I still kept in touch with. One was my old partner, Tommy Creane, who had left a couple of messages for me to contact him for a drink. This seemed like a good time, if he was free. The Wishing Well, an enjoyable drinking hole not far from the East Acton tube, had a very pleasant garden area, which is where I found Tommy, nursing a glass. I joined him, armed with refills. I hadn't seen old Creanie - now detective sergeant Creane - since his promotion, so this was an auspicious occasion. Creane wiped beer froth off his moustache, and asked me, “So, how's it going? I heard the divorce rate sky-rocketed since you became a sleuth.” “Cheeky bastard. I do get some interesting cases as well you know.” “Oh yeah! name one.” he demanded, cockily. I grinned, “The Royal Unity Assurance Company for one.” “What, spying on compo cases?” “Don’t knock it. It pays the bills.” “Yeah, but does it have the thrills of Willesden nick?” he teased, 7 nudging me in the ribs. “Sometimes I wish I had the security and camaraderie of the job, but other times it's good to be independent.” He swallowed a mouthful of beer. “You can't have it both ways, mate.” “I know that, but an interesting case would make all the difference.” “So what do you consider to be an interesting case?” he asked me, gathering up our glasses for another round. I had to think about that one. When he got back with the drinks, I said, “In answer to your question, I guess something that posed a challenge to the old grey cells.” “What like discovering what happened to Lord Lucan?” he smirked. “Smart arse.” “Seriously though mate I have a friend who tries solving historical mysteries. He's a computer programmer and he makes computer games about unsolved murders from the past.” “And that's supposed to interest me?” “Maybe. Let me explain. This nerd - Nathan is his name - is looking for someone with investigative skills to help him build a case.” “Sounds a bit wacky.” “Maybe, but I reckon you ought to talk to him. It could be a nice 8 simple little earner. Dr Goodfellow, I think he is called.” I can never be sure when Tommy is being serious and it's always a good idea to check. I looked at him. “Are you taking the piss?” “What me, Ossie old mate?” He put on a hurt look that had often got him out of a lot of trouble, especially with women. “Look, I got talking to him while on a case. The bloke is obsessed with mysterious deaths in the past. I just thought you might be able to give him some of your Sherlock Holmes expertise.” I was mildly interested. “Do you have a contact for him?” He jotted down some details on a beer mat. “He's a maths lecturer at the London School of Economics.” He checked his mobile contact list, then added the contact number to the other details. He handed me the beer mat. And that's how I got to meet Dr Nathan Goodfellow. 9 Chapter 2 Since that first brief meeting in my office, set up by Creanie, I hadn't heard from Nathan Goodfellow for a while. Yet I couldn't stop thinking about his crazy idea. I started imagining being in Nineteenth Century France carrying out my investigation. Knowing what I had learned about the subject, if I took on Nathan's case, I had a virtual six months to solve an imaginary murder, if one had been committed, that is. I must admit, in my research, I did come across some anomalies and the people who may have wanted to harm Vincent were piling up.