GROUNDSPEED
DIRTY BUSINESS
THE CHINA MOON
GIDEON'S BIBLE
S'END FOR BRADEN
THE GRACE OF GOD
EXIT POINT
THE HOUSESITTER
STOP LINE
EXCLUSION ZONE
NINE TENTHS
|  S'END FOR BRADEN
Introduction I was born and (partly) raised around the Thames Estuary. Okay, I'm actually talking about Southend-on-Sea (I'm not ashamed to admit it - not that ashamed anyway). Like everywhere else, that neck of the woods is as good as it's bad (and if you squint a little, it's almost romantic). I had the idea for a private investigator who was an "Estuary Man"; meaning someone with mud on his trouser cuffs, the sound of seagulls ringing in his ears, and a love of big skies and old boats and all the other social furniture common to most English seaside towns. Enter Joe Braden. An ordinary bloke with conviction and morals and an amusing secretary (named Hazel). I gave him a murder to investigate (what's a detective story without at least one murder?). And the rest of the tale more or less happened as it happened (in fact, Joe Braden usually got the news before I did). I couldn't get much interest in it, however. No specific complaint. Just a vague indifference from literary agents and submissions editors. My dialogue, I'm advised, is always good. And the story moves along okay. But my hero, it appears, looked pretty insignificant when compared to, say, Bruce Willis and Superman. It took me a long time to realise that the real issue when selling novels is persuading people to step inside your "private madness" for a while. That's the key. If you could just get that literary agent or editor to stand exactly where you're standing and look at what you're looking at at in the same frame of mind that you're looking at it, they'd probably enjoy the story. They'd understand Joe Braden. They'd understand what makes estuary life so great. They'd fall in love with Joe Braden's secretary. And if the rest of the plot is rubbish, well so what? Plot isn't everything, is it? But asking people to step inside your head isn't easy, partly because in the modern world we all live inside a lot of other heads - and you can't be everywhere. Heavy esoteric shit, huh? The spelling of the word S'end, incidentally, isn't a typo. It's shorthand for Southend on Sea. Another local shorthand is S-O-S, which was to be the follow-up novel:S-O-S Braden - which is still germinating in the back of my head awaiting a favourable publishing wind. But even if S'end for Braden is never published, there's still some pathetic, smug satisfaction that I actually finished the novel. And whenever I'm wandering along the Southend-on-Sea seafront, I tell myself that whilst my hopes for this novel are pretty much on their deathbed, my hero (Joe Braden) lives. Say hello for me if you bump into him somewhere, either inside my head or elsewhere.
S'END FOR BRADEN 85,000 words Plot: Joe Braden's a Southend-on-Sea based private eye. Things are looking up - until his sister in law is found dead at the bottom of a quarry with her shiny sports car wrapped around her. The murder looks ingenious, and the suspect is dangerously close. But how can the nicest private dick in Essex prove what really happened?
Chapter One
‘BUT WHAT MAKES you so certain they murdered him, Mrs Munford?’ She'd been talking to me for the best part of twenty minutes, and I still wasn't sure I'd got the facts clear. And murder, without a body or a witness, is such a difficult crime to prove. I glanced at my Timex. It was only 9.15am. There was another client in the waiting room and a third booked for ten-thirty. On any day of the week, three clients in a row was impressive for a small firm like mine. For a Monday morning, it was nothing short of miraculous. ‘Well, for one thing, Mr Bowden –’ ‘Braden,’ I corrected mildly. ‘– they told me they were going to do it.’ She opened her eyes wide for emphasis. There didn’t appear to be a lot going on in there. But looks can be deceptive. ‘They told you?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘I see.’ I was about to frame my next question when the dam burst. I nudged a box of Kleenex across the desk (in the private eye game, it makes sense to buy your nosewipes wholesale) and tried to look sympathetic. ‘Help yourself. Please.’ She snatched a handful of tissue from the slot and honked her horn I waited until she’d finished dabbing, then passed her the bin. She declined the offer and stuffed the tissues up her coat sleeve. Dirty habit that. But it wasn’t my business. I waited until she was composed once more. ‘Exactly when did they tell you this?’ I said. ‘Last Christmas.’ ‘Oh?’ I glanced at the calendar on the wall; the new one that Hazel had put up just last week. Apparently, a busty blonde mechanic wearing nothing but a smear of grease and swinging a dirty torque wrench between her legs didn’t exactly fit my new image. So for August I had to make do with Moonrise over the Millennium Dome. Needs must, but I kept the greasy naked blonde in my top desk draw for emergencies. ‘Last Christmas?’ I echoed. ‘Well last Christmas was eight months ago, Mrs Munford. Don’t you think that if they really meant to do Henry any harm, they would have done it a long time ago?’ ‘I’ve got the letter they sent me,’ she said. ‘You can see for yourself if you’d like to.’ I smiled generously. Hazel had shown me how. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’d like that very much.’ Mrs Munford opened her shopping bag and took out a purse. I watched patiently as a hand, gnarled and knobbly, the knuckles like polished walnuts, fiddled for well over a minute with the catch. I thought Mrs Munford was probably a riot of fun in a supermarket queue. But I let her do what she had to do in her own good time. Finally she extracted a handful of purse litter and gave it to me. I saw that I had in my hand a pensioner’s bus pass, a doctor’s prescription, a ten pound note, a lottery ticket and a crumpled envelope. I gave her back the things I didn’t need and studied the postmark. Local (I saw); the address handwritten in blue ink (biro) – either by a woman, or a man with a well developed feminine side; second class stamp (either a cheapskate, or the sign of an economical mind); two thumbprints (postman, probably); and a strong smell of – I sniffed delicately – fish? I indicated the envelope. ‘Mackerel?’ ‘Henry’s favourite.’ ‘Mine too,’ I lied. ‘Well, let’s look inside shall we?’ There was a movement at the door. I glanced up and saw Hazel – a pretty girl in her mid-twenties with shoulder length hazel-coloured hair and hazel eyes – bringing in the morning mail. It was all opened, carefully weeded of the more obvious cranks and psychos. I caught her eye and tugged at my left ear; code for Get-me-out-of-this-in-five-minutes,-will-you? Hazel nodded discreetly and flashed her teeth at Mrs Munford. She put the mail tray down, and left as silently as a cat burglar. Appropriate metaphor. From the fishy envelope I took out a letter and spread it on the desk. It was creased and wrinkled and covered in clues. But I couldn’t spot any of them – except for the notepaper itself, that is. That was unlined, clearly watermarked and appeared to be one of the more inexpensive brands. The hand was neat. The same hand, apparently, as that on the envelope. I read silently and presently looked up. I said, ‘It doesn’t actually say anything about murder here, Mrs Munford. Not specifically, that is. They seem to be simply asking you to keep your cat out of their vegetable plot.’ She gave me a knowing look. ‘Read the last line again, Mr Bowman.’ ‘Braden,’ I corrected again, hoping it stuck this time. Regardless, I did as she suggested. The line read; Yours sincerely, Mr & Mrs Watkins. That didn’t tell me anything useful, so I studied the line preceding that. The one that read; We would hate to resort to more serious measures. I saw what she meant. But I didn’t agree with her interpretation. Serious measures could mean anything. A dog, for instance. Or, worse still, a solicitor. I said, ‘They say that your Henry’s been making quite a nuisance of himself. You can see their point of –’ ‘He likes cabbages,’ she interrupted. ‘And he doesn’t mean any real harm.’ ‘Nevertheless,’ I told her gently. ‘They’re claiming that he’s done considerable damage.’ She smiled again and blew her nose again. I looked deep into those vacant eyes and saw that argument was useless. ‘Okay, Mrs Munford. I’ll look into it for you. Mind if I keep this?’ ‘I’ll want it back,’ she said. ‘It’s evidence. Incriminating evidence.’ I saw that she was a big TV cop show fan and knew all the jargon. ‘Tell you what. I’ll just make a photocopy then.’ She smiled at that and I gave Hazel a buzz. ‘Photocopy this please, Miss Walker,’ I said when Hazel entered the office a second or two later. ‘Three copies. One for the blue file. One for the pink. And one for my desk.’ ‘Right away, Mr Braden,’ said Hazel, her voice as bright a supernova. She left quietly again. Mrs Munford looked suitably impressed. Reputations. You have to work hard in this game to build one. ‘And you’ll go and talk to them for me, will you?’ Mrs Munford asked hopefully. ‘They live at number –’ ‘Seventeen. Yes, I’ve got it.’ She nodded happily. It was settled. I got up from my chair to show her the door. She’d seen it on the way in. But it looked as if she needed reminding where it was. ‘Oh,’ she said, still seated and evidently remembering something. ‘I forgot to mention one other thing.’ They usually do. I gave her a smile. ‘My tomato plants. They’ve been stealing those too.’ ‘Mr and Mrs Watkins?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘You’ve seen them, have you?’ ‘Not seen. But I know it’s them.’ ‘How many plants are we talking about here?’ She thought for a moment and worked her way through a handful of fingers. ‘Six?’ she said uncertainly. ‘Or is it seven?’ I shrugged. ‘Well, in any case, you can’t miss them. They’re in pots about that big.’ With her hands, she illustrated exactly how big they were. ‘I’ll keep an eye out for them,’ I said, edging towards the door and hoping she’d follow. ‘What about your fee, Mr Bowden?’ she said, reaching for her purse again. ‘I’ve only got cash.’ The naivety of pensioners. ‘For missing cats and tomato plants,’ I told her, ‘we operate on a strictly no find, no fee basis here. We’ll be in touch.’ She smiled again and cracked her hip joints getting to her feet. Hazel was back with the photocopied letter before Mrs Munford made it through the door. I tucked it carefully into her shopping bag and waved her off as Hazel helped her down the flight of stairs that led to the ground floor. Then I went over to the window to get the fish smell out.
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email: mike@mr-edit-literary-services.co.uk