Ahmed's Mysteries Volume 1: Ahmed's Mysteries, #1

By S. H. Miah

Detective Ahmed Hakeem, the private investigator always down on his luck.

 

A sizzling collection of six short stories featuring Detective Ahmed and his ace assistant, Yunus Amir. Included in this collection are:

 

• Desperation
• Dead Man's Wish
• The Lost Trail
• The Glass Ceiling
• Child Missing
• Justice Served

 

If you like twisty mysteries with a dash of wit, then this collection is not something you want to miss.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Muslim Fiction Project
• Release date: Aug 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223340669

Book preview

Ahmed's Mysteries Volume 1

A Collection of Detective Ahmed Short Stories

Desperation

Dead Man's Wish

The Lost Trail

The Glass Ceiling

Child Missing

Justice Served

S. H. Miah

Copyright © 2023 by S. H. Miah

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This publication is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Contents

Desperation

Desperation

Dead Man's Wish

Dead Man's Wish

The Lost Trail

The Lost Trail

The Glass Ceiling

The Glass Ceiling

Child Missing

Child Missing

Justice Served

Justice Served

Newsletter

About MFP

About S. H. Miah

Desperation

A Detective Ahmed Short Story

S. H. Miah

Copyright © 2023 by S. H. Miah

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This publication is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Desperation

As Detective Ahmed Hakeem stared at the crime scene, with his ace assistant Yunus Amir, he decided there weren't many things worse than being thrown over an alleyway dumpster, left to rot with your stomach cut open and organs spilling out into the festering garbage below.

The stench was horrid. A foul mixture of blood and guts, coppery and metallic once the smell reached Ahmed's tongue, and devilishly potent, as if the killer had spilt some chemical to worsen the effects of the smell.

The night swirled around them like a tornado honing in on the crime scene as its central point. The deadly silence surrounding the man lying dead with his legs half out of the dumpster was palpable, like a monster eating away at their skins, prodding and challenging them to solve this one.

The man was young, around twenty something if Ahmed had to stab a guess. Of course, the face being obstructed didn't bode well for an accurate assessment, but the full arm muscles and mass of head hair led credence to someone well developed, yet not quite reaching Ahmed's point of ageing into physical obscurity.

The murder, according to the coroner at the scene, had occurred a few hours prior, at around nine at night. Given the autumn billow circling the scene with the foreshadowings of winter, nine at night was summer's midnight, especially on the streets of East London where crime was as rampant as grains of sand on a beach.

The victim's skin was paling by the second, now a sickly and chilled white, and the whiff of rotten tomatoes and bread extended from the dumpster to grab Ahmed's nostrils for another ride.

Found anything yet? Chief Inspector Cobain asked, dropping in from the cordoned-off alleyway entrance. He was dressed in his typical police uniform, donning the irritating hat for this one, too. And he walked with a confidence that annoyed Ahmed more than anything. This one's a blinder, let me tell you.

Cobain was a long-time friend of Ahmed's from the academy days, flying through the police ranks on sheer luck whilst Ahmed nearly starved as a private eye in the streets of East London. And, to be more precise, 'friend' was putting the state of their relationship very loosely.

Cobain provided cases to Ahmed and Yunus once in a while, whenever the situation called for it. A few hours into investigating the murder of this man in the garbage dump, Cobain's force had gotten no tangible leads other than a scurrying cat. So, Cobain roused Ahmed from his early night's sleep and dragged him over to Limehouse for a view of the crime scene just after midnight.

We'll find something, Yunus said, staring at the body limped over the dumpster. I got a feeling there's something that we're missing.

Feelings don't solve cases, boy, Cobain said, to which Yunus scowled. Real evidence does.

Yunus is right, Ahmed said. I got a hunch we're missing something. Just get out of our way Cobain and we'll get this thing solved by three.

Cobain huffed, glanced at his watch. You've given yourselves two and a half hours, then. Chop chop, lads, you aren't getting paid for nothing.

Next it was Ahmed's turn to scowl and return his attention to the crime scene. He didn't need a coroner to tell him the victim had died from blood loss due to his guts being ripped out.

Strangely, though, as Ahmed inspected the alleyway entrance leading to the dump, he noted no blood. Just deadening concrete with wisps of old paint that had dried eons ago.

But no blood.

Strange, that, isn't it? Ahmed said, circling around Yunus for a better view of the entire alleyway.

What's strange? Yunus asked.

Look at the whole alleyway. The place is bloody spotless, Yunus. Not a lick of blood anywhere. Ahmed leaned down, inspected the concrete nearest to the dumpster. Only grey met him, not a speck of red. No blood anywhere, Yunus. And this killer ain't exactly Jack the Ripper is he?

But how? Yunus asked, following Ahmed's gaze and nodding. Did he clean up after killing the victim?

Ahmed shook his head. It's a seriously strange one, Yunus. He swept to the side of the dumpster, then pushed it. It was heavy, too heavy to move. Wouldn't budge an inch.

Then Ahmed glanced inside, covering his nose with a hand. The stench still intruded, but beyond that were scores of old crisps and pastry packets and fruits that were rotten to the core, more decomposed nothingness than fruit.

Some fruits were less rotten than others, however, and caught Ahmed's eye. They were covered in thick wads of blood, and clumps of flesh that were likely the man's intestines.

Ahmed gulped down the churn in his throat and stomach, then leaned his head back up.

Gosh, that stinks as bad as a drug party for the homeless.

He then glanced deeper into the alleyway and noticed three other dumpsters on the far side next to metal doors. The dumpsters were no doubt used by the businesses adjacent to them. He checked inside the dumpsters quickly—no stench, and they were empty.

Strange, Ahmed thought, crossing back to where Yunus stood.

Get the coroner if you can, Yunus, Ahmed said.

When Yunus returned with the coroner, Ahmed asked the man with long hair down to his mid back and wearing thinly speckled glasses how long forensics would take to get fingerprints off the victim's body.

You're a detective, aren't you? the coroner said with a raised eyebrow.

And I failed the academy exams. Ahmed waved away the question. So how long is it?

Already been done, and ain't matched anyone we got on file. That's why the boss ain't said a lick about it.

So it's not an existing criminal, Ahmed mused aloud after thanking the coroner and watching him leave. That means something foul is amok, Yunus. Something we must uncover.

But what is it?

Ahmed tapped his brow. That is the question. And we're about to find out.

Ahmed strode across the alleyway to Cobain, who was laughing with his police friends, and called his name.

Solved it already? Cobain asked, walking with them to one side. He checked his watch again, then smirked. Been about ten minutes so I doubt it.

Stop with the snark and listen, Ahmed said. We need to speak to the bin men who operate this alley. Their manager, if you will. The one with the info.

Why's that?

Ahmed narrowed his eyes. "I'm solving a case here and I'm a detective. In case you haven't noticed there's four dumpsters in the alley, and three of them were clear when I checked. Yet this one's got rotting vegetables and fruit. What gives?"

Cobain rubbed his chin, then nodded. You're lucky I'm so well connected, you know. Got links to every major player in these parts.

Local waste collection manager isn't exactly the prime minister, Yunus scoffed.

Cobain ignored him and continued. So I can get you a reception with him. Let me pull up his number and explain what's happened.

Gonna wake him up like you did us? Ahmed asked with a laugh.

Believe me, Cobain said. That man ain't gone to sleep. He's probably stoned out his mind in a pub round here. Let me call him.

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Twenty minutes later, as the night thickened into its most potent state, with a starless black haze overtaking the heavens, Ahmed realised what Cobain had been speaking about with regards to the waste collection manager.

Timothy Wagner was the manager of the local waste collection team in Limehouse. Well, from Cobain's description anyway, he was the guy at the very top who reported to the MP.

How a man like that rose the ranks was a complete mystery to Ahmed.

Standing before Ahmed now, about fifty minutes after midnight, Timothy Wagner looked worse than death. Looked as if he'd witnessed the