Holy Orders Read online

  Holy Orders

  Chase Investigations #9

  Angus McLean

  Copyright 2018 Angus Mclean

  Introduction

  Thank you so much for buying my book. I am excited to share my stories with you, and hope you enjoy them.

  If you’d like to know about new releases and receive a free book, sign up to McLean’s Hitlist at www.writerangusmclean.com or email me at [email protected].

  Chase Investigations series:

  Old Friends

  Honey Trap

  Sleeping Dogs

  Tangled Webs

  Dirty Deeds

  Red Mist

  Fallen Angel

  Chase Investigations Boxset 1

  The Division series:

  Smoke and Mirrors

  Call to Arms

  The Shadow Dancers

  The Berlin Conspiracy

  The Service Series:

  The Service: Warlock

  Nicki Cooper Mystery Series:

  The Country Club Caper

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Bonus Chapters

  Author Page

  Bibliography

  One

  ‘A stolen car?’ I said. ‘Seriously?’

  I put my folder down on my desk. It was a black leather folder with Detective Dan Crowley imprinted on it under the crest of the Counties-Manukau CIB. I got it years ago and it had served me well.

  Molly swivelled in her chair and looked at me, a slight smile playing at her lips. My wife was distractingly beautiful but right now I was too agitated to do anything about it. I’d just got back from a trial in the High Court. A good case had been thrown out.

  Losing is not something I do well, and it was only a Tuesday. It didn’t bode well for the rest of the week.

  ‘Yep,’ she said. ‘Seriously.’

  ‘And when’s he coming?’

  Molly checked her watch. ‘Any minute.’

  I harrumphed and grumbled. Sometimes a good harrumph and grumble works, but not today. I’d worked for months to prove a senior manager had fleeced the bank of over two million bucks, before giving the case over to the Serious Fraud Office. They’d charged the woman and got her into court, only for it to all fall over on a technicality.

  Okay, the technicality was fairly big – the SFO investigator hadn’t fully disclosed everything to the defence, which obviously hampered their case – but still. She was now threatening to sue everyone under the sun including yours truly, Dan Crowley, private investigator extraordinaire and proprietor of Chase Investigations.

  ‘Come on now,’ Molly teased, ‘turn that frown upside down.’

  Her teasing didn’t help so I flopped down at my desk and sulked for a minute.

  My sulking was interrupted by the office door opening and I put my game face on, ready to greet the visitor. But it wasn’t Julian Dearlove here to talk about his stolen car – and it didn’t matter if it was some banger of an old Toyota, my hourly rate would be staying the same whether he liked it or not – but instead someone rather less welcome.

  Mike Manning, my best mate and business partner, was tall and muscular with blonde hair and a hatchet face. I hadn’t seen him for a couple of days. Today he was dressed in an old checked Swandri, ratty track pants, gumboots and a skull cap.

  The reek of fish preceded him.

  ‘Oh my God,’ Molly said, pushing back from her desk and covering her nose and mouth. ‘What’ve you been doing?’

  Mike grinned and paused by her desk, giving her the benefit of a close-up whiff. ‘I found your man Epiha,’ he told her.

  Molly’s reply was muffled but she didn’t seem too enthralled. Even across the office I could smell him.

  ‘Where was he?’ I asked, trying to hold my breath. ‘An aquarium?’

  Timothy Epiha was a career swindler who had conned our client, an insurance company, out of tens of thousands of dollars with numerous fraudulent claims under false names. They’d filed civil proceedings against him but could never get him to court.

  I tried and failed to find him before I got tied up in the High Court trial. Molly had tried and failed before passing it on to Mike. He was like a dog with a bone with these sorts of things, and it appeared he had won.

  ‘I knew he was into fishing and I found out he grew up in Onehunga,’ Mike said. ‘I spent two days scoping out the footbridge over the harbour between Onehunga and Mangere Bridge and found him there today, happy as Larry. I dropped a line, we got chatting, I ID’d him from the photo and handed him the papers.’

  He grinned triumphantly and gave a fist pump.

  ‘Boom, served! Off to court you go, son.’

  I didn’t want to rain on his parade, but I could feel myself turning blue and slipping into unconsciousness.

  ‘Why,’ Molly managed, ‘how…’ She waved a hand at him vaguely.

  ‘Oh, this?’ Mike seemed surprised she’d even asked. ‘I slipped and fell in a bucket of fish.’

  I gave him incredulous. ‘Seriously? A fish bucket did that?’

  ‘Well, burley really. And it was like a metre long container.’

  I shook my head in amazement. ‘How?’

  ‘Well when his mates turned up.’ Mike looked at me like I was an idiot. Clearly I hadn’t received the telepathic message he’d sent. ‘They chased me, I ran, some guy got in the way and I slipped and landed in the fish bucket.’

  ‘Did you roll around in it?’ I asked. ‘Like a hippo in mud?’

  Mike was about to retort when the office door opened again and a man stepped in. He was short and slim and dressed in a wool overcoat and a trilby. An actual trilby. You don’t see them very often in Ellerslie, I can tell you.

  The man looked at Mike, paused then stuck out his hand. ‘Mr Crowley, I presume?’ His accent was cut glass and he gave no reaction to Mike’s eau-de-orange roughy.

  ‘Na, that’d be him.’ Mike pointed my way with a dirty finger. ‘The moustache with a person holding it up.’

  ‘Ahh, I see.’ The small man gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘You must be Mr Manning then.’

  I got there in time to save him from shaking Mike’s paw, ushering him to the client couch instead and making quick introductions of Molly and myself.

  ‘Dearlove,’ the small man said, shaking my hand with a hidden strength, ‘Julian Dearlove.’

  Amazingly he was breathing normally. It was as if we were in a country meadow, not Davy Jones’ locker. He shucked off his overcoat and placed it carefully beside him with the trilby perched on top. The suit beneath the coat was a natty pinstripe and I could almost see my reflection in his shoes.

  Molly and I sat with him and I subtly waved Mike away. He disappeared into the small bathroom, hopefully to the even smaller shower. Molly stifled a retch and fetched a can of air freshener from her desk, giving it a good burst.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she said, sitting again, and Dearlove smiled indulgently.

  ‘Not at all, young lady. I have no sense of smell at all, so whatever was bothering you most certainly wasn’t bothering me.’

  Lucky him, I thought to myself. We would have lost a client before we’d even got started, even if it was for some crappy stolen car. But looking at this Julian Dearlove character, I had the sneaking suspicion there was more to this than what I had first thought.

  ‘Thank you for meeting with me,’ Dearlove continued. ‘I always like to meet people I
’m doing business with in person, I don’t believe in all this electronic mail nonsense.’

  His sandy hair was neatly side parted and he had a pencil moustache. I couldn’t tell if he was sixty or eighty or somewhere in between.

  ‘I’ve looked into you people, and I believe you’re the people I need on my case,’ he said, looking from Molly to me. ‘Tenaciousness is what I need, and from what I hear you have it in spades. You come highly recommended.’

  He dropped a couple of names of well-heeled previous clients, and I made a mental note to add them back to our Christmas card list. Dearlove fixed me with a direct gaze.

  ‘Do you know much about cars, Mr Crowley?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘What about television? Specifically, classic British shows?’

  I’d always found Fawlty Towers to be a hoot, but I bit my tongue. ‘A little,’ I said carefully. ‘Depends what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Did you ever watch The Saint? Roger Moore in the sixties, not that awful Ogilvie fellow in the seventies.’

  ‘Yep.’ I nodded affirmatively. I had a boxed set at home and had forced Molly to watch it. She may have even enjoyed it.

  Dearlove nodded, a look of satisfaction on his face. I had the feeling I’d passed a test.

  ‘The 1962 Volvo P1800,’ Dearlove said in a reverent tone. ‘Driven by Roger and immortalised by Simon Templar.’

  I knew exactly the car he was talking about and I felt a kick of excitement in my gut. Now he was talking. This was serious stuff.

  ‘I own it,’ Dearlove said. ‘I found it on a farm in Wales, rotting away in a hay barn. I got it restored – it took several years and a fair whack of cash, mind you – and when I came out here to New Zealand a number of years ago I brought it with me.’

  I could feel myself salivating with anticipation, and even Molly had a look of excitement. I knew we’d be breaking out the DVDs for a marathon when we got home.

  ‘What’s it worth now?’ I asked.

  Dearlove gave a shake of his head. ‘Hard to say, dear boy. I couldn’t put a figure on it and even if I could I wouldn’t sell it. It’s priceless to me, an absolute work of art.’

  ‘So what’s happened?’ Molly said.

  Dearlove’s forehead furrowed. ‘Some filthy scoundrel has stolen it,’ he said. ‘Someone has stolen The Saint’s car, and I want you to find it.’

  I glanced sideways at Molly. Her eyes were gleaming with anticipation. The theme tune to The Saint was running through my head – Da na-na na nah nahhh…I got a grip and cleared my throat before turning back to the English gent before me.

  ‘Mr Dearlove,’ I said, ‘I think we can help you.’

  ***

  Dearlove had made his exit by the time Mike emerged from the bathroom, towelling his hair dry and smelling a million times better.

  ‘Who was that guy?’ he asked, plopping into his chair.

  I was busy scribbling notes on my pad and Molly was tidying her desk, getting ready to go home.

  ‘Anyone?’ Mike prompted.

  I glanced up to see Molly give him a cheeky grin. ‘A new client,’ she said. ‘Dan’s very excited.’

  She passed him a colour promo shot she’d printed off. He took it, frowned for a moment, then a look of recognition crossed his face.

  ‘The car’s been stolen,’ Molly explained. ‘And you can see why Dan’s so excited.’

  Mike hoisted one foot onto the edge of his desk and gave me a shake of his head. ‘You sad git.’

  ‘It’s a classic,’ I retorted. ‘A piece of cinematic history.’

  He gave a dismissive sniff. ‘What kind of car is it? That old Aston Martin thing?’

  ‘No,’ I said slowly, ‘that’s James Bond’s car. This is The Saint.’ I frowned. ‘And an Aston Martin is not a thing.’

  It was Mike’s turn to frown. ‘Who’s The Saint again?’

  ‘Simon Templar. An international playboy criminal, righting wrongs and wooing ladies.’ I caught Molly’s eye. ‘That’s right, wooing.’

  ‘And Daniel Craig played him? No, who was that guy? Bronson?’

  ‘Pierce Brosnan played Remington Steel in the eighties,’ I explained. It was like talking to a dementia patient. ‘Roger Moore played The Saint in the sixties. And he drove a Volvo P1800, which has been stolen, and which we’re going to find.’

  Mike nodded his understanding. Or at least he nodded. He considered this for a moment. ‘And how does this Dearlove guy fit in? Who did he play?’

  I put my hands over my face and suppressed the urge to scream.

  Two

  Julian Dearlove lived in a palatial property in Epsom, not far from Government House.

  It was one of those large stone places that resembled an English country house, the sort of place that if it had been in Surrey would have been staffed by uniformed footmen and the like, which presumably was the attraction.

  The garage was a standalone affair with room for three vehicles. There was not a speck of dust in sight and the floor gleamed. Where the Volvo had stood was now an empty space. To the left of that was a well maintained but far less auspicious red Triumph Spitfire.

  ‘My day to day vehicle,’ Dearlove explained. ‘One doesn’t tootle around Auckland in a classic Volvo.’

  I’d never tootled in my life, but he was right nonetheless.

  ‘And you discovered it missing yesterday?’ I said. I had my notebook and pen at the ready. ‘What time?’

  ‘I got home from the club at three,’ he said. ‘Opened up to park and there it was. Or rather, there it wasn’t.’ He shook his head gravely. ‘I don’t mind saying I nearly cried.’

  I nodded. I didn’t have quite the same attachment to my inconspicuous Mazda 6. Ideal for a private eye; not so much for an international playboy.

  ‘And there was no sign of a break in?’

  ‘None at all.’

  I could see black fingerprint dust on the white wooden doors. ‘The Police have been.’

  Dearlove gave a snort. ‘For what it was worth. They found nothing of course.’

  I cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘That was a fast response for them.’

  He lifted his chin and gave a small smile. ‘I know people,’ he said. ‘Their district commander is a member of one of my clubs.’

  I nodded. It figured. I continued my examination of the scene. The cops are actually pretty good at this sort of thing so I didn’t expect to find anything, but it was always worth a shot anyway. It didn’t take long to establish there was no sign of forced entry at all, which left only two possible points of entry; the main doors or the side pedestrian door. Both were secured by sturdy key locks.

  ‘How many sets of garage keys are there?’ I asked.

  ‘Just the two,’ he said, patting his pocket. ‘One here and one in the safe inside.’

  ‘Are you sure? Nobody else could have cut a spare?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ he said indignantly. ‘I may be getting on a bit but I’ve still got my faculties, Mr Crowley. I’d no sooner let someone have access to my Volvo than I’d let them sleep with my wife.’

  I gave him quizzical and he cocked his head, reconsidering his analogy.

  ‘If I were married, of course,’ he finished. ‘Which I’m not.’ He gave a sigh. ‘Never really gave that sort of thing much thought. Not that I didn’t have plenty of opportunities, I might add.’

  ‘I bet the car attracted plenty of attention,’ I said, and his eyes lit up.

  ‘By Jove yes, the ladies certainly liked a spin.’

  I smiled to myself. He was quite the character, Julian Dearlove.

  There was no alarm that I could see, and Dearlove confirmed that it was something he had meant to get round to but never did.

  ‘Too blasted late now, obviously,’ he lamented.

  I got the name of the Scene of Crime Officer who’d attended, and confirmed there was no CCTV on-site. Another item on the “to-do” list. Dearlove accompanied me while I took a wander around the ground
s.

  The property was secure on all sides with a set of tall black iron gates across the driveway and solid concrete walls around the perimeters. The walls were covered in ivy in places but I couldn’t see any sign of disturbance. There were a number of well-established trees dotted about and several had branches that overhung or reached the walls, providing access to a nimble burglar.

  It was a beautiful property and at somewhere around half an acre it had to be worth a mint.

  ‘I take it you’re retired now?’ I asked as we made our way back to the front of the house.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘And what was it that you did prior to that?’

  ‘You mean how did I afford such a splendid home?’ Dearlove chuckled. ‘Well I had a fairly eclectic career, I guess you could say. I was in the RAF, flew bombers and what have you for a few years. Ended up in the Middle East flying the Sultan of Oman’s forces about the place. Blasted hot over there, of course. I got into import/export and basically worked my tail off for the next thirty years or so.’

  ‘What did you ship?’

  He shrugged. ‘Pretty much anything.’ He gave me a quick look. ‘Nothing illegal, mind you. There was plenty of that about, but I stayed well clear. I had a wee health scare a decade ago and the old doctor told me to ease off or die off.’

  ‘Pretty to the point,’ I said.

  ‘You’re not wrong.’ He nodded. ‘So I finally stepped back, sold my house in London and retired here to New Zealand and enjoyed the life I’d worked so damn hard to get.’ He frowned and pursed his lips. ‘And now some nasty little rotter has stolen my beloved Volvo. What would Simon say?’

  I took it he was talking about Simon Templar. I wondered how far his attachment to the character went if he relied on him for guidance. Mind you, people believe they can talk to Elvis too, so why not?

  I left Dearlove to go inside and make himself cucumber sandwiches or whatever it was English bachelors did and hit the road. As soon as I was out the gate I dialled the mobile number for the SOCO, Doug Leslie. I’d never heard of him, but by the looks of the collar number printed under his name, he’d been in the job about twenty years.