A Mysterious Stranger
by Angus Shoor Caan
Genre: Crime/Mystery
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: There’s rum goings-on on Arran for Tom Soya and Injun Joe to investigate.
_____________________________________________________________________
Detective Tom Soya dug his heels in and refused, point blank, to accept ‘Gardening leave’, opting instead to take up residence in the dungeon. The dungeon was the local nick's soubriquet for the office containing the files on cold cases, of which there were many. Wall to wall filing cabinets filled the dungeon with a gap for an old fireplace being the only relief; that, and barely room enough to open the door.
“A waant ri cleaners doon rer rimorra, Chic,” says Tom to the desk sergeant. “Gie ri place a guid dustin' doon an' mibbes see if rat fireplace his still gote ri lungs tae draw smoke up ri lum.”
“Ah'll lea' word fur rum, detective,” says Chic, “right et ri tap e' ri list.”
“Guid man. If a'm gonnae huv tae bey doon rerr, a might is weel bey waarum eh?”
The entire North Ayrshire force was aware of Tom's encounter with the smugglers, the threats made to his family and his narrow escape from the high speed car chase which resulted in his vehicle rolling over an embankment and almost crushing the life from him. That Tom had captured all but the gang-leader was the stuff of legend but the case had taken its toll on his health – on his mental health, according to the newly appointed personnel shrink.
Tom convinced the woman he would surely go mad if he had to sit at home all day and that's where the idea of the dungeon had surfaced, a sort of compromise on all sides.
The open fire made the dungeon cosy and the isolation offered a calm Tom could never have envisaged; he quickly found himself suited to it and happily put his fine detective's brain to work.
He had a secretary of sorts, Joseph Eaglefoot, a plooky youth who looked like he should have still been at school.
“ 'Zat a Rid Injin name, son?” asked Tom on being introduced.
“ 'Hink it might be, surr,” says the boy, “a'm currently researchin' it so a'm ur.”
“Fancy yursel' is a bit e' a detective, dae ye?”
“Eventually, surr. A ken a've a long wye tae go birrit's definitely an ambition.”
“Guid fur you, bit listin here tae me. Ye caw me Tom whin rur's naeb'dy aboot, an' Mr Soya whin rur is. A don't haud wi' aw rat bowin' an' scrapin' 'surr shite'. Gote rat, son?”
“Aye, surr....a mean Tom, surr.”
“Grand. An' a'll caw you Injin Joe. How dis rat sit wi' ye?”
“Rat's jeest fine, surr......Tom.”
Six months went by in a flash and Tom made headway on a number of old cases, although he himself wasn't permitted to carry out any of the legwork side of things he had once been accustomed to. To get around this, he seconded Injin Joe to whichever colleague caught the case and in doing so was able to stick his oar in when the young officer brought him up to speed. This gave Joe valuable hands-on investigative experience and he regularly thanked Tom for the opportunity.
Their holidays coincided, almost. Where Joe had just the two bare weeks due to his rookie status, Tom had almost a full month coming to him. A wedding in Canada took up part of it; his nephew, the son of his older brother. Joe had to settle for a couple of weeks camping on Arran.
While in Canada, a mysterious stranger approached Tom as he enjoyed a trip on The Maid of the Mist and told him he was on the verge of a huge breakthrough concerning his work; Tom dismissed it, having no time for clairvoyants or Shamen whatsoever.
Back at work, Injun Joe brought a disc with his holiday snaps and Tom promised to view them when he had caught up with things. It lay in a drawer for almost a week before he got around to it and he was really sorry for that almost immediately on introducing the disc to the computer.
Joe was sent for, told to drop whatever it was he was doing and get himself down to the dungeon, pronto.
“Who's that?” Tom asked before Joe could catch his breath. He was pointing out a large man in the background of one particular photo.
“Didnae catch 'es name, Tom, bir 'e waantit tae buy ma bike aff me; telt me tae name ma price.”
Tom had a file on the desk, his ruler poking from the pages to save his place. He opened it to reveal a series of photographs from a cold case, one of the first cases he had worked on when he made it to detective grade. “Tell me rat's ri same gadgie twinty two years oan. A'm right inta?”
Joe had to agree after first employing a Sherlock Holmes style magnifying glass on the grainy snaps. “ 'S'him awright, ur if it's no' it's 'es double, Tom.”
“Right, son, tell me whit ye ken aboot 'um. Rack yur brains an' don't lea' nuhin' oot.”
Joe took his time, making a pot of tea while he thought it through. “ 'Es sumhin' tae dae wi' ri tourist park, a'm shair a' rat; 'hink 'e owns ur pert owns it. Only seen 'um twice, mibbe three times, an' only spoke tae 'um ri wance't.”
“Ye said sumhin' aboot yur bike, Joe. Whit wis aw rat aboot?”
“It's a P53.”
“Whit ri fuck's rat whin it's et hame?”
“Norton Commander. No mony e' rum built, which is whye 'e wis intrestit. Me an ma faither pirrit aw back rigither an' fun pairts tae make it guid is new.”
“Ha much we talkin' here, ballpark? Did ye say 'e says name yur price? That valuable is it?”
“Nivir thote tae value it birrit's insured fur therty five thoosin'.”
Tom whistled. “Read rem case notes, Joe, bit keep it unner yer bunnet. That there's Barry Finn an' very shin me an' you's gaun tae Arran tae arrest 'um oan hunners a' coonts a' fraud. Bastart done hunners a' aul' biddies oot e' rur life savin's. Hunners a' thoosin's a' poun's.”
As Joe read, Tom typed it up for presentation. He didn't bother his immediate boss with it but made an appointment to speak with Don Caster, the division head, his old boss and mentor; the man who had led the hunt for Finn all those years ago.
Don gave them the go-ahead. He wanted in on it himself but graciously gave Tom the gig when he saw the energy he was applying; Tom had full rein.
It took Joe a week to get Finn to a phone, and ten minutes to persuade the man to part with thirty thousand pounds, cash. He also talked Finn into coming to the mainland for the test drive, saying Arran's roads wouldn't show the P53 off to its best abilities. He further stirred the pot by explaining he had found yet another, similar bike shell and planned to spend some of the money on restoring it to its former glory.
Three plain clothes detectives travelled with Tom on the early ferry from Ardrossan, although they sat separately. Tom introduced himself to the skipper and let him know what was happening. He was on the bridge when they tied up at Brodick and scanning the dockside with binoculars in search of Finn. Five minutes to sailing time and Finn exited a large touring van, accompanied by a mountain of a henchman. They boarded just in time. Despite the rain, both men avoided the shelter of the accommodation, preferring instead to travel on the stern deck.
With no smoking allowed inside, the three plain-clothes detectives ducked out for a cigarette, spacing their exits to make it look as they didn't know each other. Their job was to take care of the big guy, leaving the way clear for Tom to make the arrest. One of the detectives asked the henchman for a light and the giant found himself cuffed before he knew what was happening, his hands looped around the stern rail.
“Barry Finn!” says Tom. “A'm arresting you in connection wi' several coonts a' fraud. Ye don't huv tae say onyhin' bit onyhin' ye dae say wull mibbe bey yaised against ye in coort.”
Finn looked suitably pissed off but had the presence of mind to attempt an assault on Tom. Two of the detectives cuffed him in similar fashion to his mate and conducted a search through his pockets. Neither man had anything like thirty two grand on him, which suggested Finn had no intention of parting with such a sum; another con in the offing, by Tom's reckoning.
Barry Finn's face when Tom handed him over to the custody of Injin Joe was a picture, a picture Tom would carry with him for the rest of his days.
Three days later, Joe came to the dungeon and threw a copy of The Arran Banner onto Tom's desk. He was grinning a mile wide. “Front page, Tom, smart as fuck so it is.”
The headline read:
“Conman conned in police sting after twenty two years on the run: seemingly, most of it spent here on Arran.
Yesterday, (Tues), Detective Tom Soya huckled Barry Finn as he boarded the Ardrossan bound ferry at Brodick. The cold case had been resurrected by a rookie cop, introduced to this reporter as Injin Joe, whose powers of detection have been highly praised by his superiors. Full story page five.”
Tom read the full account before taking up his scissors and cutting the piece from the paper; it would look good on the bulletin board. He didn't mention the mysterious stranger to anyone but he did spare the man a thought. As break-throughs went, they didn't come much bigger than this.
Tom has more on his plate these days. He still conducts his business from the dungeon but he's never short of company. New recruits are sent to him and told to learn the ins and outs of police work at the feet of the master. Not only that, he has a working knowledge of all new and recent cases since his peers drop by to ask his advice.
Injun Joe is now a fully fledged detective. He found he had relatives in Canada, not far from Niagara Falls where Tom was based for his stay. He's invited Tom to travel with him when he goes to meet them and Tom was quick to agree. If only for the chance to meet up again with the mysterious stranger.
Swearwords: A couple of strong ones.
Description: There’s rum goings-on on Arran for Tom Soya and Injun Joe to investigate.
_____________________________________________________________________
Detective Tom Soya dug his heels in and refused, point blank, to accept ‘Gardening leave’, opting instead to take up residence in the dungeon. The dungeon was the local nick's soubriquet for the office containing the files on cold cases, of which there were many. Wall to wall filing cabinets filled the dungeon with a gap for an old fireplace being the only relief; that, and barely room enough to open the door.
“A waant ri cleaners doon rer rimorra, Chic,” says Tom to the desk sergeant. “Gie ri place a guid dustin' doon an' mibbes see if rat fireplace his still gote ri lungs tae draw smoke up ri lum.”
“Ah'll lea' word fur rum, detective,” says Chic, “right et ri tap e' ri list.”
“Guid man. If a'm gonnae huv tae bey doon rerr, a might is weel bey waarum eh?”
The entire North Ayrshire force was aware of Tom's encounter with the smugglers, the threats made to his family and his narrow escape from the high speed car chase which resulted in his vehicle rolling over an embankment and almost crushing the life from him. That Tom had captured all but the gang-leader was the stuff of legend but the case had taken its toll on his health – on his mental health, according to the newly appointed personnel shrink.
Tom convinced the woman he would surely go mad if he had to sit at home all day and that's where the idea of the dungeon had surfaced, a sort of compromise on all sides.
The open fire made the dungeon cosy and the isolation offered a calm Tom could never have envisaged; he quickly found himself suited to it and happily put his fine detective's brain to work.
He had a secretary of sorts, Joseph Eaglefoot, a plooky youth who looked like he should have still been at school.
“ 'Zat a Rid Injin name, son?” asked Tom on being introduced.
“ 'Hink it might be, surr,” says the boy, “a'm currently researchin' it so a'm ur.”
“Fancy yursel' is a bit e' a detective, dae ye?”
“Eventually, surr. A ken a've a long wye tae go birrit's definitely an ambition.”
“Guid fur you, bit listin here tae me. Ye caw me Tom whin rur's naeb'dy aboot, an' Mr Soya whin rur is. A don't haud wi' aw rat bowin' an' scrapin' 'surr shite'. Gote rat, son?”
“Aye, surr....a mean Tom, surr.”
“Grand. An' a'll caw you Injin Joe. How dis rat sit wi' ye?”
“Rat's jeest fine, surr......Tom.”
Six months went by in a flash and Tom made headway on a number of old cases, although he himself wasn't permitted to carry out any of the legwork side of things he had once been accustomed to. To get around this, he seconded Injin Joe to whichever colleague caught the case and in doing so was able to stick his oar in when the young officer brought him up to speed. This gave Joe valuable hands-on investigative experience and he regularly thanked Tom for the opportunity.
Their holidays coincided, almost. Where Joe had just the two bare weeks due to his rookie status, Tom had almost a full month coming to him. A wedding in Canada took up part of it; his nephew, the son of his older brother. Joe had to settle for a couple of weeks camping on Arran.
While in Canada, a mysterious stranger approached Tom as he enjoyed a trip on The Maid of the Mist and told him he was on the verge of a huge breakthrough concerning his work; Tom dismissed it, having no time for clairvoyants or Shamen whatsoever.
Back at work, Injun Joe brought a disc with his holiday snaps and Tom promised to view them when he had caught up with things. It lay in a drawer for almost a week before he got around to it and he was really sorry for that almost immediately on introducing the disc to the computer.
Joe was sent for, told to drop whatever it was he was doing and get himself down to the dungeon, pronto.
“Who's that?” Tom asked before Joe could catch his breath. He was pointing out a large man in the background of one particular photo.
“Didnae catch 'es name, Tom, bir 'e waantit tae buy ma bike aff me; telt me tae name ma price.”
Tom had a file on the desk, his ruler poking from the pages to save his place. He opened it to reveal a series of photographs from a cold case, one of the first cases he had worked on when he made it to detective grade. “Tell me rat's ri same gadgie twinty two years oan. A'm right inta?”
Joe had to agree after first employing a Sherlock Holmes style magnifying glass on the grainy snaps. “ 'S'him awright, ur if it's no' it's 'es double, Tom.”
“Right, son, tell me whit ye ken aboot 'um. Rack yur brains an' don't lea' nuhin' oot.”
Joe took his time, making a pot of tea while he thought it through. “ 'Es sumhin' tae dae wi' ri tourist park, a'm shair a' rat; 'hink 'e owns ur pert owns it. Only seen 'um twice, mibbe three times, an' only spoke tae 'um ri wance't.”
“Ye said sumhin' aboot yur bike, Joe. Whit wis aw rat aboot?”
“It's a P53.”
“Whit ri fuck's rat whin it's et hame?”
“Norton Commander. No mony e' rum built, which is whye 'e wis intrestit. Me an ma faither pirrit aw back rigither an' fun pairts tae make it guid is new.”
“Ha much we talkin' here, ballpark? Did ye say 'e says name yur price? That valuable is it?”
“Nivir thote tae value it birrit's insured fur therty five thoosin'.”
Tom whistled. “Read rem case notes, Joe, bit keep it unner yer bunnet. That there's Barry Finn an' very shin me an' you's gaun tae Arran tae arrest 'um oan hunners a' coonts a' fraud. Bastart done hunners a' aul' biddies oot e' rur life savin's. Hunners a' thoosin's a' poun's.”
As Joe read, Tom typed it up for presentation. He didn't bother his immediate boss with it but made an appointment to speak with Don Caster, the division head, his old boss and mentor; the man who had led the hunt for Finn all those years ago.
Don gave them the go-ahead. He wanted in on it himself but graciously gave Tom the gig when he saw the energy he was applying; Tom had full rein.
It took Joe a week to get Finn to a phone, and ten minutes to persuade the man to part with thirty thousand pounds, cash. He also talked Finn into coming to the mainland for the test drive, saying Arran's roads wouldn't show the P53 off to its best abilities. He further stirred the pot by explaining he had found yet another, similar bike shell and planned to spend some of the money on restoring it to its former glory.
Three plain clothes detectives travelled with Tom on the early ferry from Ardrossan, although they sat separately. Tom introduced himself to the skipper and let him know what was happening. He was on the bridge when they tied up at Brodick and scanning the dockside with binoculars in search of Finn. Five minutes to sailing time and Finn exited a large touring van, accompanied by a mountain of a henchman. They boarded just in time. Despite the rain, both men avoided the shelter of the accommodation, preferring instead to travel on the stern deck.
With no smoking allowed inside, the three plain-clothes detectives ducked out for a cigarette, spacing their exits to make it look as they didn't know each other. Their job was to take care of the big guy, leaving the way clear for Tom to make the arrest. One of the detectives asked the henchman for a light and the giant found himself cuffed before he knew what was happening, his hands looped around the stern rail.
“Barry Finn!” says Tom. “A'm arresting you in connection wi' several coonts a' fraud. Ye don't huv tae say onyhin' bit onyhin' ye dae say wull mibbe bey yaised against ye in coort.”
Finn looked suitably pissed off but had the presence of mind to attempt an assault on Tom. Two of the detectives cuffed him in similar fashion to his mate and conducted a search through his pockets. Neither man had anything like thirty two grand on him, which suggested Finn had no intention of parting with such a sum; another con in the offing, by Tom's reckoning.
Barry Finn's face when Tom handed him over to the custody of Injin Joe was a picture, a picture Tom would carry with him for the rest of his days.
Three days later, Joe came to the dungeon and threw a copy of The Arran Banner onto Tom's desk. He was grinning a mile wide. “Front page, Tom, smart as fuck so it is.”
The headline read:
“Conman conned in police sting after twenty two years on the run: seemingly, most of it spent here on Arran.
Yesterday, (Tues), Detective Tom Soya huckled Barry Finn as he boarded the Ardrossan bound ferry at Brodick. The cold case had been resurrected by a rookie cop, introduced to this reporter as Injin Joe, whose powers of detection have been highly praised by his superiors. Full story page five.”
Tom read the full account before taking up his scissors and cutting the piece from the paper; it would look good on the bulletin board. He didn't mention the mysterious stranger to anyone but he did spare the man a thought. As break-throughs went, they didn't come much bigger than this.
Tom has more on his plate these days. He still conducts his business from the dungeon but he's never short of company. New recruits are sent to him and told to learn the ins and outs of police work at the feet of the master. Not only that, he has a working knowledge of all new and recent cases since his peers drop by to ask his advice.
Injun Joe is now a fully fledged detective. He found he had relatives in Canada, not far from Niagara Falls where Tom was based for his stay. He's invited Tom to travel with him when he goes to meet them and Tom was quick to agree. If only for the chance to meet up again with the mysterious stranger.
About the Author
Angus Shoor Caan is in an ex-seaman and rail worker. Born and bred in Saltcoats, he returned to Scotland after many years in England and found the time to begin writing. He has a number of publications to his name, including Coont Thum and Tattie Zkowen's Perfect Days, both of which have been published by McStorytellers.