Shortcrime is my buzzword for crime short stories from the world of Kiran Mendelsohn and Lloyd’s Pub & Diner.

Lloyd’s is the favourite pub of Kiran Mendelsohn, protagonist of my first crime novel Rancor

The background to this idea is my habit of writing not only profiles or biographies of characters for my novels, but often also short texts about people, situations and individual settings for chapters. Since I found this to be an exciting exercise for myself I thought it might also offer the reader a better insight and new perspectives. So this blog will be the platform for these ideas, storylines and downright experimental writing.

The setting: At Lloyd’s, characters from the novels meet and interact with each other. This can be a short story about the protagonists , it can be a view of them from other characters or simply an entire self-contained story worth telling. The setting, however, is always the pub. As in the book themes are therefore the same as those familiar from the pub: politics, society, culture, food, drink and sport. And of course crimes. After all, this is where Kiran and his team spend their off-time.

In the following story, we relive a scene from the novel Siberian Wind, this time from the perspective of regular guest Alistair Campbell.

Enjoy.

HAGGIS TERMINUS

A clear, pleasant wind blew across the Paul Lincke waterfront. With it came the smells of spring, a mixture of fresh flower buds and various fragrances that drifted out of the open windows along with music and cheerful snippets of conversation. Despite the approaching evening, there was still a certain warmth in the air. Berlin was awakening from its winter slumber.

Alistair Campbell sat next to the front door of Lloyd’s Pub & Diner and smoked his pipe. He relaxed and let the wafts of whisky tobacco escape into the evening sky, contributing his share to the odour cocktail. Passers-by cast friendly glances at him and the entrance to the pub. With his whiskers and tweed jacket, many took him for the owner of the pub when he sat outside.

Lloyd’s was Alistair’s second living room; in addition to his favourite spot at the bar, the stool next to the entrance was his lookout point from which he watched people, mused about the world and looked for new topics to either entertain or maltreat the regulars at the bar inside. He did this with such regularity that the pub had already started collecting for a seated, pipe-smoking bronze statue to be placed next to the entrance in the distant future.

He had arrived in Berlin some ten years ago in search of a place where he could spend his considerable fortune in peace and quiet. A proven cosmopolitan, Alistair could have chosen anywhere in the world, but then he had lost his heart to Berlin. The Scot in him liked the Germans and their rather reserved manner, reminiscent of the Gaelic gurnards back home in Inverness. Berlin was also culturally and politically very interesting. Scotland in comparison was rather provincial. Beautiful, but at the arse end of the world. London far too expensive and stressful, the US was ruled out simply because of its general lack of IQ and class. As for the rest of thje world, he had had enough exoticism in Asia and Australia.

But then he came to Berlin, for the first time since the 60s. He had experienced the day the Berlin Wall was built purely by chance and vowed to visit this historic city again. The opportunity finally presented itself at the end of the 1990s when a Japanese business partner invited him to the city. Together they had set up a branch of their company and Alistair had once again succumbed to Berlin’s rugged charm. Amazing, considering that after decades in Asia, he was actually used to a completely different mentality.

Alistair had been born and raised in Hong Kong, studied there and in Edinburgh, and then returned to Hong Kong to take over his late father’s business and completely turn it around. Five years later, he owned three restaurants, his driving school operated several hundred cars, and he was also involved in various companies and investment funds.

By the time Hong Kong was handed back to China, his money had multiplied at an almost obscene rate. The problem was that it was almost impossible to enjoy the wealth in Hong Kong. Almost all newcomers adopted the excessively hectic hustle and bustle of the locals without realising it. People worked from six in the morning until late in the evening. Relaxation meant alcohol and only took place at night in the clubs and bars – until the morning. People slept at the end of the month. Social life in Hong Kong from the 1950s to the 1980s was therefore quite traditional. The men’s drug was work and brandy, the women’s was country clubs and gin.

With no intention of kicking the bucket at 60, Alistair stayed clear of this lifestyle and sought out his own little hideaways. He loved expensive food and wine as much as the cuisine in the cellars and courtyards of the old town. One day, however, he was delighted to discover a German restaurant with the telling name of Schnurrbart – moustache. The ambience was rather modern and inconspicuous, but the rustic food was unbeatable, with decent beer to boot – Alistair was in heaven.

So it was not much of a surprise to end up in Berlin. He had started learning the language back in his moustache days. Now, after ten years in Berlin, he spoke German so fluently that his accent was beginning to bother him. And yet he thoroughly enjoyed having found a good British pub. Certain things, including Scottish malt whisky and a freshly poured Guinness, were essential for a healthy lifestyle.

The namesake and owner Nestor Lloyd was a convinced eccentric. After his time with the British Battalion in North Berlin, he was not drawn back to Merseyside. He liked Berlin and saw far better opportunities to realise his idea of a pub here: Classic bar service in the pub area and an innovative kitchen, even if the latter was as anarchic as the interior of the establishment. The place had a charm all of its own, which had made Alistair a loyal regular, just like some others. He also loved to get the stoic Nestor out of his depth by teasing him with rude jokes about Englishmen or by pelting defenceless guests at the bar with absurd political ideas.

A shrill yelp tore him from his thoughts. An elderly man in a grey coat had appeared out of nowhere and was tying his dachshund to the hook next to the entrance. Alistair nodded to him, but only received a brief, enquiring look.

Alistair was just about to put his pipe away when someone else approached him. This person moved rather unsteadily and somewhat aimlessly (tourist), his face pale and elongated (Englishman), his clothes off the peg and in completely unfashionable colours (Marks & Spencer), and slightly overweight (microwave cook). He stopped, looked blissfully at Alistair and spoke in the broadest Manchester dialect.

“Excuse me, is this an English pub?”

Alistair frowned, furrowed his eyebrows and replied in equally broad Scots. “You’d think so, it says so.” As a gentleman, however, he sent a friendly smile afterwards.

“Oh man, awesome. Did ok with Krauts so far, but I need a bloody break. Any pub food?”

“Everything you need. Only I’d order it in a bit more neutral English, the landlord’s from Liverpool.”

“Ah, a Scouser. Cor, thanks.”

Alistair followed the newcomer inwardly rubbing his hands in delight. Like all new arrivals, he paused in confusion, took in the visual chaos and then sat down at the bar. While the expansive bar at Lloyd’s, the tapping system and the bottle area behind it met the highest standards, the restaurant area was a maze of absurd flavours. Nestor had furnished it with family heirlooms and artefacts from his trips to East Berlin. People sat at strange constructions or on slightly worn sofas, surrounded by junk from all eras. Normal tables were the exception and therefore the first to be occupied. Of course, there were many who came here precisely because of the quirky interior. Most of those who came to the shop for the first time and knew nothing about the interior, however, instinctively went to the bar first.

Alistair took a seat two chairs away and ordered a Guinness from Dierdra, Nestor’s wife and bar manager. Sky News was on the large flat screen. Nestor left it on all day without sound, as he preferred quiet background music. The only exceptions were football and rugby matches. Just then Sean Connery was seen walking around in a kilt in front of a government building with the headline “Scotland’s future: referendum dated for 2014”.

Alistair laughed into his beer and looked round. “Well, it’s about time.”

That had the expected effect. Nestor raised his eyes to the sky and went to the old man at the other end of the bar, Dierdra smiled knowingly, the man from Manchester looked at Alistair.

“No idea why they do that. INot like they’re going to have any more money, and they already have their own football league. Morons.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows seriously, although he was jubilant. “Oh, do you think so? On the contrary, I think the whole thing will be very lucrative for us.”

“And how’s that supposed to work?”

“I could go on and on, but that would be going too far. Let’s keep it simple: firstly, we won’t have to share our significant oil shares with the ailing English bankrupt economy, and secondly, our parliament will be far more democratic.”

“More democratic than the parliament in London?”

“Of course. Let me give you an example: 26 bishops sit in your House of Lords and fart in their chairs for an entire parliamentary term. Why? Not because they are elected or know anything about anything, but simply because they belong to the Church of England. That, my friend, is the definition of backwardness.”

His counterpart grimaced. “You Scots aren’t exactly modern either.”Sein Gegenüber verzog den Mund. »Also so richtig modern seid Ihr Schotten aber auch nicht gerade.«

“I wouldn’t put it that way. We’ve invented everything that makes up modern life. Penicillin, anaesthesia, television, refrigerators and, above all, golf. Where would the world be without our inventions? And then, not to forget, the toilet flush. Remember that the next time you kneel in front of it when ManU are knocked out of the Champions League.”

“That’s not quite correct,” came a voice from the right. Alistair turned to the old man. He looked at him seriously and expressionlessly.

“Water closets already existed in the Bronze Age. The Indus civilisation had flush toilets in every house in Harappa as early as 2000 BC.”

Alistair looked surprised, partly because the man had spoken in German, although the conversation had been in English. “But probably not at the touch of a button,” he finally replied somewhat lamely.

“A day to tick in the calendar. Ali has found his master,” commented Dierdra and laughed. Then she turned to the man. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Thank you very much, no. I have to get going.” He stood up and put on his coat. “Not much going on here, but surely it gets busier in the evening?”

“Of course,” replied Dierdra. “At nine, all the tables are taken, especially when we have some specialities on the menu of the day like today.”

“Walk-ins or regulars? Your menu of the day is a bit confusing.”

“Both. We have some regulars like Alistair here, but also a lot of guests who visit us because of our quirky menu. My husband cooks on a whim, but it’s excellent.”»Beides. Wir haben einige Stammgäste wie Alistair hier, aber auch sehr viele Gäste, die uns wegen unserer eigenartigen Karte besuchen. Mein Mann kocht eher nach Laune, aber ganz hervorragend.«

The man just nodded, put the money for his coffee on the counter and left. Alistair looked after him.

“Strange guy. Looks like one of those depressed pensioners. Until he opens his mouth. Not bad. East German, for sure.”

“How can you tell?” asked Dierdra.

“Habitus. Inconspicuous, but underneath a subtle toughness, well educated and confident in expression. It’s more of an East German style, they’ve simply had a more intensive education, especially this generation.”

Nestor came out of the kitchen, the entrance to which was in the centre behind the bar. “Haggis is ready, Ali. You want to eat now?”

“Of course,” Alistair replied beaming, took the whisky that the prudent Dierdra held out to him and went to one of the normal tables.

The meal was a real treat. Alistair lost himself in childhood memories while celebrating the Scottish national dish. Haggis was only served at Nestor’s every four weeks, whenever Alistair received a fresh and iced delivery from Inverness. He had two groceries sent to him by messenger, no matter where he was in the world: The fresh salmon he caught on his annual fishing holiday in Canada and haggis from Hamish McTiernan. Like his whiskies and Burgundy wines, both were a permanent fixture in his pantry.

With all the feasting, he hadn’t even realised how much time had passed. The Englishman had long since disappeared when Alistair sat down at the bar for an espresso. The pub had filled up by now and it was time for a late dinner. As always, Alistair was glad to have beaten the rush and savoured the freshly brewed coffee.

A little while later, the door opened and two men came in. The first one stood rooted to the spot and stared around in confusion. He was wearing a scuffed leather jacket, very good jeans and had stringy hair. Despite his three-day beard, he didn’t look like a rock & roll freak. This was a controlled guy who wore his outfit with conviction. Then Alistair saw the bulge under his arm. Of course, criminal investigation department. As if to confirm it, he recognised the second person to enter. Kiran Mendelsohn greeted the lady of the house with a relaxed smile and directed his companion to the bar.

Kiran was also a regular at Lloyd’s. The lucky man had bought the vacant loft on the top floor of the building and had been coming regularly and punctually for dinner ever since.

Alistair was very fond of this atypical German. This was mainly due to Kiran’s cosmopolitan lifestyle. He had spent a year at high school and later another two years in the States for his police training, which was immediately apparent. His English was thoroughly American, but refreshingly accent-free. He had also spent a year in Japan. He had said little about this time, but his calm and focussed manner suggested that he had studied Zen Buddhism intensively there.

He was also a profiler at the Federal Criminal Police Office, International Co-operation Department. This made him the perfect dialogue partner for Alistair, who loved stories about criminal machinations. Above all, because Kiran was a specialist and you couldn’t even begin to throw him off the scent, let alone lure him out of his comfort zone. This was a constant challenge for Alistair, but at the same time he had quickly come to respect this interesting and secretive man. Alistair showed tolerance to anyone who was halfway educated. But respect was only given to those who had mastered the art of savouring good food. Kiran was more of a Japanese cook and gourmet, but an attentive and adventurous contemporary.

Together they had eaten their way through Nestor’s craziest creations and talked about the world. Alistair was sure that beneath Kiran’s controlled exterior, there was still a lot lurking, not a few of them things that couldn’t be discussed in the pub. After decades of exploring different social classes in East Asia, Alistair had developed a keen sense for subliminal emotions and wardrobe skeletons. Mendelsohn’s protective wall, however, was made of steel. However, as Kiran was an extremely sociable and very courteous person, Alistair accepted the boundaries that this man drew in every conversation. Only in sport did Alistair know no mercy. Kiran’s total ignorance of rugby and the world of sport in general could not be tolerated in a pub. But the man was capable of learning, which is why Alistair had taken the tactically clever diversions via good Scottish malt whisky.

Kiran caught sight of him and introduced his acquaintance. “Bolko, may I introduce you to a true Scotsman? A good friend and part of the inventory. Alistair Campbell – Bolko Blohm.”

Alistair held out his hand. “Pleased to meet you, young man. You look like you could do with a little kick-start before the beer. Try a twenty-one year old Bruichladdich, it’ll relax you immensely.”

Blohm’s questioning expression was immediately answered by Nestor, who had also joined them and placed two glasses of whisky in front of them.

“Hi, Kiran. New colleague?” He greeted Blohm and poured them a single malt.

Bolko fixed his gaze on the glass. “Ehm, usually I drink this with ice, but…” He interrupted himself seeing Nestor’s scowl.

Alistair intervened before Nestor could say anything. “My dear boy, there are indeed few worse things you could have said in a proper pub. Better try a drop of water, as our great-grandfathers intended.”

Bolko looked suspicious, while Kiran toasted everyone and drank the whisky in one gulp. Bolko followed suit, gasping for air and pointing to the restaurant area behind him.

“Shall we have something to eat and discuss the day?” he asked in a choked voice.

Kiran nodded and ordered two pints, while Alistair raised his thumb with a laugh and looked after them.

Bolko walked into the room and, to Alistair’s delight, chose the craziest table by far, a steel plate mounted on a tub. Nestor had left the water tank with coal stove and shower head on the bathtub and painted it a golden bronze colour. Basically, this was a completely pointless combination until one day a Welsh rugby team turned up to watch the four-nation tournament on TV after a friendly match with their German team-mates.

Alistair, a rugby player himself in his youth, immediately made friends with the lads. After several hours of talking shop and drinking heavily, the now overcrowded pub ran out of supplies. Alistair and his new friends then suggested filling the water tank at the table with Guinness. However, this idea, which was actually quite excellent, had bounced off Dierdra like a brick wall.

Nestor came back to the bar and passed Kiran’s order on to Dierdra. “Two Bavarian shepherd’s pies for Kiran and his colleague.”

Alistair thought he had misheard. “Bavarian shepherd’s pie? What on earth have you done now, Englishman?”

“It was a request from a couple of students from Bavaria. They wanted something rustic with Sauerkraut, but they like shepherd’s pie and asked if it could be combined. Nice guys, coming round later. Incidentally, you almost extracted the liver from one of them the other day with your whisky suggestion. Anyway, I thought it was a good idea, so I tried a Bavarian version of the Shepherd.”

“I see, and what’s that supposed to look like?”

“Easy. Make the mash like colcannon mash, but with bacon and fried onions, with fried sauerkraut instead of cabbage. The meat layer is not minced lamb, but Bavarian Leberkäse. Topped with a thick cheese crust, of course. Could be a big hit here, especially in winter. There is hardly a better drinking base than such a cheese, potato and meat hammer. And it tastes great, like pretty much everything from Bavaria.”

Alistair grimaced at this utter sacrilege. Well, he loved German and Bavarian food, but this somehow crossed the line. It also sounded rather mushy.

“It’s also looks very appealing. We make it like a Lasagna with alternating layers, cut out pieces of pie and sprinkle fresh chives on the cheese crust,” added Dierdra, who had guessed Alistair’s thoughts.

“Hm, well. I’ll probably give it a try, but it’s haggis day today, guys. And Kiran’s never tasted it before. Make them two portions, I’ll pay.”

“You think this is a good idea, Ali?” asked Dierdra.

“Of course it is. It’ll be a good experience for the two of them. Go ahead, Nestor, I’ll take responsibility.”

He ignored Nestor’s sardonic look of doubt and drained his whisky. Today was a day for unforeseen conversations. He also wanted to take a closer look at Kiran’s new colleague. There was something between the two of them. Blohm wasn’t just any cop, he was working with Kiran. You could see that from their focussed conversation. And the occasion was no ordinary one. This was a very serious matter. There was a definite seriousness in their expressions. The last time Alistair had seen this expression was in Hong Kong, when an ambassador friend of his had told him about his encounter with the Triads.

He went outside and lit a pipe. Two beefy guys were standing at the window, looking into the pub and talking in Russian. As I said, it was a cosmopolitan day today.

When he re-entered the pub fifteen minutes later, Nestor was just getting ready to serve the food. Alistair grabbed his house bottle of Bruichladdich and followed him.

Kiran and Bolko looked a little confused as Nestor served the food. Alistair made no fuss and sat down at the table with them.

“Gentlemen, I’ve talked the landlord out of this Bavarian-British concoction. Two young, cultured German civil servants must be treated to the pearl of Scottish cookery. I also have the remaining bottle of Bruichladdich with me for this purpose. Bolko, my boy, have you ever heard of Robert Burns?”

Bolko shook his head, still staring at the plate. “What is this?”

Alistair smiled jovially, ignoring Kiran’s penetrating gaze. “That, Bolko, is the Scottish traditional and national dish, haggis.”

“And what’s it made of? It looks like mince in a sack.”

Alistair nodded. “You could say that. You cut it up and pour some whisky over it, that’s the important seasoning ingredient. Do you mind?” Without waiting, he drizzled the whisky over the portions and motioned for them to start eating.

Bolko’s face brightened as he chewed. “Right, very flavourful. And the whisky is a great idea, would also be good on normal mince,” he said to Alistair and turned to Kiran: “Have you ever eaten this before?”

Kiran shook his head, chewing, looking rather seriously towards Alistair.

“So, who is this Robert Burns?” asked Bolko.

“Our national poet. Lived in the middle of the 18th century. Not only did he write the national anthem, but countless poems about debauchery of all kinds. Most of them centred on drinking, good food and women. He even wrote about mice, I suppose in delirium tremens. He was quite a bon vivant, a Scottish Tom Waits, if you like.”

“I see. Sounded more like a chef. And the recipe is from him?”

“No,” Alistair replied, delighted with this further cue. “Burns also wrote an ode to haggis. A whole poem about this meal, composition, meaning, flavour, everything – and in the best rhyming form. We Scots celebrate it every year on 25 January, his birthday. A ritualised feast with a fixed order of speech, the serving of the haggis and the ceremonial slicing with the recitation of the ode accompanied by bagpipes.”

“And what’s so special about the composition?” asked Bolko, without noticing Kiran’s warning expression.

“It’s basically comparable to the German black pudding, perhaps also Presskopf or Saumagen, that your former chancellor liked to eat so much. Basically a bit of all of the above. You take a sheep’s stomach, cleaned of course, and let it steep in water while you cook the innards, heart, liver and lungs. The whole thing is chopped up, mixed with nutmeg, oatmeal and onions and stuffed into the stomach. My butcher in Inverness, where this haggis comes from, adds his own seasoning mix. Divine, don’t you think?”

Bolko had stopped chewing during the last few sentences and looked blankly at Alistair.

“No need to pause, my boy. This is a centuries-old national dish and very tasty.”

Bolko’s expression was still hard to define as he swallowed carefully. “You mean we’re eating all the parts of the sheep that would normally be thrown away?”

Alistair shook his head. “Only idiots do that. Even in Germany they eat fresh tripe.”

Kiran had already finished his plate, downed his beer and went to the bar to order more drinks. Alistair poured Bolko another whisky.

“Don’t get me wrong Bolko, this isn’t a prank I wanted to play on you. Haggis is not only a delicacy, it’s also an interesting exercise in self-awareness.” He raised his glass and smiled.

Bolko drank and continued to eat slowly. “What do you mean?” he asked, chewing carefully.

“Very good. That’s the right attitude. You see, the haggis tasted excellent to you until you learnt what was in it, then it tasted like stinking sheep, right?”

He didn’t wait for Bolko’s answer. “That’s exactly the moment when our right brain takes control and issues completely nonsensical orders. I recognised that in Kowloon. It’s an old slum neighbourhood in old Hong Kong that has since been demolished. You have to see it to understand the city. I was invited to a dinner with my Chinese business partner. He taught me the most important lesson about discovering other cultures.“When they serve you sheep’s eyes, don’t think about what you’re holding. Look your host in the eye, smile, put it in your mouth and imagine it’s a bunch of grapes.” Worked really well.”

Bolko pushed the plate away from him and looked helpfully at Kiran, who arrived with fresh beer and two stomach bitters. Bolko downed both.

“Well, it needs to be said, you two are definitely the strangest blokes I’ve met recently. And that’s saying something after the last two days.”

Kiran shrugged smiling. “Well, this isn’t exactly routine for me either. My days are usually much quieter. And Alistair has only treated me to gourmet food so far, not culinary endurance tests like today. What possessed you, Ali?”

“Well, the haggis is fresh and you’ve been due for a long time. Now you arrive here with your colleague, who doesn’t look like a snoozy civil servant to me. The opportunity was ideal. And then I don’t think you two are here for a little drink among colleagues, am I right?”

Kiran and Bolko looked at each other.

“Come on, it’s obvious,” Alistair added.

Kiran raised his eyebrows, but otherwise didn’t flinch.

“Well, let me guess. Yesterday, Germany’s most powerful industrial magnate was killed by a professional in front of his house. Today you, who should have been on holiday since yesterday and incidentally had extended an invitation to grilled Koberind, are sitting at the table with a new colleague and you’re discussing it for half an hour with a face as if the Tet offensive is imminent. So, the murder is your case, is it?”

“Razor sharp reasoning. Yes, we’re the lead investigators on the case. Bolko is new from Hamburg and leads the team. I’m advising.”

“Advising, right,” said Alistair, tilting his head. “Well, I don’t know what this industrial bigwig has been up to, but from what I’ve read about him and his actions in Russia, I’d be surprised if it’s just counselling.”

Kiran looked at him. “We’ll see. But I can’t tell you anything about all this, Ali. I’m sorry.”

“YNo sweat, my boy. But I’m glad to see you out in the fresh air again.”

Bolko looked just as astonished as Kiran. Alistair beat them to it. “Don’t worry, Bolko. Kiran will assure you that I’m not a nosy pensioner. More of a veteran who’s noticed a few things. But I’ll honour your instructions not to give anything away. We’ll find out soon enough when things go pear-shaped. And now, my friends, let’s have a few more digestive schnapps. Scottish ones, not that sticky Italian stuff they named after a pop singer. Come along to the bar.”

With those words, he stood up. Kiran and Bolko followed. When they arrived at the bar, Bolko engaged the bar manager, who was beaming at him, in conversation and was given a cider as well as the schnapps.

Alistair took Kiran aside. “Good man, your colleague. Very easy-going. But that’s deceptive. He’s an absolute crusher when the chips are down, trust me.”

Kiran nodded. “He does make a good impression. Very professional when it comes to work. But also quite flippant. Takes a bit of getting used to for me, but I’ll manage.”

“One more thing. While you were ordering, two Russians were standing at the window casing the place. Prison tattoos, bull necks, shaved skulls. You watch it out there.”

He gave the astonished Kiran a pat on the shoulder. They drank a few more shots until Bolko and Kiran finally said goodbye, paid and left the pub together.

Alistair waved goodbye and puffed on a new pipe. Suddenly he felt Dierdra’s eyes on him. She looked at him seriously. And worried.

Words were unnecessary. Diedra had an unmistakable sense of impending disaster.