The Phantom of Barker Mill

by steve higgs

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Then I will see you in the morning.’ I had bid her good evening and disconnected just in time to see Bull shoot after a rabbit that had popped up in a nearby bush. I yelled his name in the vain hope that he might halt his charge. I might just have well have attempted to use the force for all the impact it had. Thankfully, I managed to snag him as he popped back out of the bush still wagging his tail and snuffling the floor where he had first spotted it. The rabbit had doubtless sought refuge back down his hole, so I was lucky the tiny dog was not halfway down the hole himself.

  Tethered once again to their leads, I led the two of them out of the park and back to the house. It was mid-evening, the day seemed to have been quite long already, so I would be bound for bed before very long.

  First, though, I needed to spend some time going over the large pack of paperwork I had been given at the Mill. It was bound in plain brown paper and labelled only with, "FAO Tempest Michaels". I knew already that the pack contained financial reports and other drab documents pertaining to Brett Barker's affairs. I was not going to have any trouble getting to sleep.

  Starting the Investigation. Friday, 8th October 0713hrs

  I awoke to find the utterly boring financial statements I had been reading through last night still lying on the bed. I had fallen asleep reading. Across the bed, the duvet moved slightly, and a small black nose peeked out: A Dachshund coming to snorkel depth. An odd thing about Dachshunds is they love to burrow. They will burrow anywhere they can. I don't mean they dig a maze of warrens under my garden, but in the house, they go under pillows, under blankets, under a sweatshirt if I discard it on the floor. They will stay like that for hours, reaching what I would expect to be an uncomfortable temperature, yet it appears to be their preferred state.

  The nose belonged to Dozer. He peered at me suspiciously, wondering if I would make him get up just because I was awake, but his concerns were for naught. The clock told me it was 0713hrs, which constituted a lie in for me. I considered the day ahead for a few lazy minutes still tucked under my warm bedding. I had a new case to pursue. I had a new partner, which ought to mean that the firm would solve more cases and make more money. I was seriously considering getting a part time admin assistant and the thought of not having to do all the paperwork was joyous.

  This morning I had Amanda coming to the house to go over what I knew about the Barker Mill case so far. Then we would be off to interview the chap that had been dismissed under suspicion of being the Phantom, and then to see Brett Barker hopefully. I wanted to interview the chap that had been fired simply because I needed to eliminate him. That he might be guilty of any involvement in the death of George Barker never entered my mind. I was just being thorough and building a complete picture of the events surrounding the death. I suppose though that he might have a grudge against the old man. Anyway, I was off to interview him with Amanda and I wanted to meet Brett Barker, the man my client was convinced had murdered her husband. How he had pulled that off I had no idea. Yet. He might be entirely innocent. The death might yet prove to be natural causes. But then what was with the Phantom and the burning handprint on the door frame. Something was amiss at the Mill. I did not like things that were amiss. I did not like mysteries with ridiculous supernatural explanations. It was time then, to find some answers. I swung my legs out of bed and followed them to the bathroom for a shower and shave. Amanda would be here soon enough, and the day was beckoning.

  Forty-seven minutes later the doorbell chimed to announce the arrival of someone that wished to enter my abode and the dogs burst into their usual fit of barking.

  By then I was showered, shaved, dressed and fed. The dogs had been out and had eaten and the day had begun.

  I opened the door to find Amanda on my doorstep as expected. As always, she looked fantastic in everyday clothes. Today she was wearing, knee-high black, leather boots with stretchy black leggings, not the cheap kind though, her leggings looked like they came from Hobbs or Laura Ashley. Her perfect chest was clad in another stretchy fabric. Unadorned with a logo declaring the designer, it was a long sleeved deep red roll neck top that somehow made her boobs look bigger. At least, to me they did, as I tried my hardest not to notice how they pushed the unzipped portion of her black leather jacket apart like two faces peeking between closed curtains.

  ‘Good morning.’ I managed, stepping away from the door to let her in. The dogs were shut in the kitchen so that she could come in without having to step over them.

  ‘Good morning, Tempest.’ She smiled her ever winning smile.

  ‘Shall I open this?' she asked, one hand on the kitchen door handle. The dogs had gone silent or at least had stopped barking and were sniffing underneath the door, probably already aware that they knew the person on the other side. I nodded and watched as the two sausage-shaped fools climbed over each other to get out the door first.

  To stop them jumping up at her legs, Amanda crouched down to pet them. They both rolled onto their backs to have her scratch their undercarriage. She cooed at them for a minute before standing back up, and contented, they trotted off to their bed in the lounge.

  Amanda followed me into the office where I had already printed off a ream of information regarding the Mill and the persons of interest. I found photographs of Mrs. Barker, her late husband George and the new owner Brett just by exploring the internet. I had printed off pictures of the Mill from the outside and some shots of the inside, plus the picture of the Phantom and the shots of the burnt handprint. Some were already pinned to the cork board in my office/dining room, those that were still on the table I swept up and added to the board while Amanda took off her jacket and began to study them.

  ‘This is Brett Barker?' she asked, indicating his picture. ‘Good looking.' she said when I nodded. Was he? I guess she would be a better judge than me on male attractiveness. To me, he looked like a bloke, but I suppose, now that I was considering it, he had good hair, a strong jaw and a certain muscular athleticism to his figure. Amanda was still staring at his picture. I decided that I hated him and suddenly hoped he was guilty.

  ‘Shall I make tea?' I asked, already on my way out the door. I wanted one, so the kettle was going on anyway, but she called after me that a tea sounded great.

  A few minutes later, two mugs sat steaming on the dining table while we sat, and I brought her up to date on what I knew so far. It did not take long. I tried to avoid conjecture at this point of a case as early conclusions tended to prove themselves false. The plan for the day was to interview Owen Larkin, the young executive that had been fired by Mr. Barker over suspicion of sabotage and to revisit the Mill to interview Brett Barker. I had emailed Mrs. Barker last night requesting her assistance in setting up the appointment with Brett. I expected the new Mill owner to be resistant to interview and suspicious of my purpose. Whether that would prove to be the case I was yet to find out, but Mrs. Barker had assured me he would make himself available today and his PA would contact me later to advise a time.

  Owen Larkin lived in Crayford, a few miles and a town over from Dartford but on the same strip of river. His address I had obtained from reception at the Mill, they had been instructed by Mrs. Barker to give me their full cooperation. They did not, however, have a phone number for him, so I was going to wing it and try to catch him at home. It was 0855hrs, we had finished our tea, let the dogs into the garden for a quick pee and were heading to Crayford right now.

  On LinkedIn Owen Larkin was still listed as working at Barker Mill in the role of Vice President of Business Development. I had no idea what that title meant, but my assumption was that since he had not updated his professional profile with a new role he had probably not yet been reemployed and was thus to be found at home. It was a guess, but as we pulled up to his address it was clear I was right.

  Owen Larkin Interview. Friday, 8th October 0932hrs

  I had a picture of Owen Larkin, so could match the face of the man stood stretching on his doorstep to the one in my hand
. Dressed in sports gear, yet devoid of perspiration, he looked like he was about to go for a run.

  It was 0932hrs on a Friday morning and the street was largely deserted, the absent cars having been used to take their owners to work. Owen Larkin lived on a street of small, but neat terrace houses. Front gardens were well kept and most had a short brick wall bordering the pavement with a well-clipped hedge framed just above it. Outside some houses, the hedge needed a trim and in others, there was no hedge, but in general, the street was pleasant and today the sun was shining down with a warm October radiance.

  With a plethora of options for a parking spot, I parked right in front of the house with the passenger's door to the pavement. It was an unconscious act based on placing the lady against the kerb so that she did not have to step into the road and avoid cars. However, the accidental result was that Owen, who had been just setting off on his run, ground to a halt at the sight of the pretty blond waving at him.

  ‘Owen Larkin?’ she asked through her open window, already knowing the answer. ‘Could I trouble you for a minute of your time?’

  His motion arrested, he was still moving toward the car and beginning to bend down when Amanda opened the door and stepped out. I laughed at how instantly hooked he had been. Amanda is stunning to look at and had probably shot him her best smile. I would have been equally hooked had she called out to me in the street. It might be fun to run an experiment to see how many men could ignore her.

  While I was getting out of the driver's seat and coming around to join them on the pavement, Amanda took his hand and shook it. He was not tall, perhaps five feet nine inches. I knew his age to be twenty-nine, he had an MBA from a London Business School and he was single, so far as I could tell.

  ‘Good morning.’ Amanda said. ‘We need to ask you a few questions about the Mill, shall we go inside?’ Amanda had put an arm out to guide him back towards his house and had asked the question as if it were happening anyway and his acquiescence was a foregone conclusion. As it turned out she was right, and he allowed her to guide him to his house.

  ‘This is my colleague, Tempest Michaels.’ she said, indicating to me as we went into his house. ‘I am Amanda Harper.’

  ‘Err, hello.’ he replied weakly. ‘What did you say this was about?’

  ‘Mostly this is about Barker Mill, Mr. Larkin. Thank you for agreeing to answer our questions.'

  ‘But,’ he began, but she cut him off before he could catch up with himself and realise he had not agreed to anything of the sort.

  Amanda had flipped open a notepad, as had I. She clicked her pen to make the nib appear and fixed him with a smile once more. ‘You were dismissed from your job on September 2nd. Is that correct?’

  ‘Um, yes.’

  ‘Can you tell me about that, please? What led to the dismissal?'

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Owen started. ‘Why is it that I need to answer your questions today?’ It appeared that the spell Amanda casts on men is temporary as Owen had found his brain now.

  ‘We are investigating the murder of George Barker on behalf of Mrs. Barker.' I replied. He turned to look at me properly for the first time.

  ‘You think he was murdered?’

  ‘Mrs. Barker does, and she has hired Amanda and me to determine how, and then who perpetrated the crime.'

  He seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘I read that it was natural causes.’ He said more to himself than to us. He was deep in thought. Then a lightbulb came on in his head, his face showing it as surprise. ‘So, you are here because you think I could have done it.’ He exclaimed with worried excitement.

  ‘Not exactly.' Amanda answered. ‘You could have cause for grievance and that might act as a motive. We are simply being thorough though and need to speak with you to eliminate you from our enquiries.' It was a textbook answer designed to alleviate any worry that we might be on to him. We needed him to talk for exactly the reason Amanda just said, but he could be guilty, as much as anyone else could at this stage. ‘Can you tell us about your role at the Mill? You worked directly for Brett Barker, didn't you?'

  She was trying a new tack, getting him talking about a safer subject.

  ‘Yes, I did. Brett and I were working on big plans for the future…’ he stopped mid-sentence.

  ‘Go on.’ Amanda encouraged.

  ‘I’m afraid that is all I can tell you.’ he answered.

  ‘Why is that?’ she asked, probing for more. His reluctance to talk about his role at the Mill was suspicious.

  ‘Is Brett looking to close the Mill?’ I asked directly.

  Instead of answering he closed his lips tight and mimed locking them with a key and throwing the key away. Amanda and I both made a note on our pads.

  Amanda changed tack again. ‘How long have you known Brett?’

  ‘Since Eton. Since we were eleven. We met on our first day in fact.' Back on safer ground, he had started talking.

  ‘And you followed him to Barker Mill?’

  ‘Brett and I had similar interests. We went to the same Oxford college, read the same Bachelor's degrees and he offered me a job long before we graduated.'

  ‘How did your dismissal come about?’ she asked, swinging back to her original question.

  ‘I was framed for an accident I had nothing to do with and fired without the chance to defend myself. That is what happened.’ snapped Owen, finally displaying some emotion. Clearly, the incident still angered him. It was my experience that people, in general, like to talk about anything unfair that ever happens to them. They will tell anyone, encouraging the listener to agree that they were treated unfairly as if this in some way confirms that they were indeed always in the right. Owen was no different, so for the next five minutes he talked animatedly about how he had no idea how the crane safety lockouts came to be in the boot of his car, and that he never even went onto the shop floor to have been able to get them and had no knowledge of the equipment so didn't even know what they did. He had some colourful things to say about the former Mr. Barker, pausing at one point so that Amanda and I could write down, "miserable old wanker". A term that Owen was very definite about.

  ‘You received a healthy severance did you not?’ I asked.

  ‘I did. But only when I threatened to sue for unfair dismissal. It was Brett that sorted me out. He just went over the old man’s head.’

  ‘Brett Barker?’ Amanda confirmed.

  ‘The very man.’

  ‘Tell me about Brett Barker, Owen.’ He turned to face me when I spoke.

  ‘Brett Barker is a visionary. He is the right man to lead the firm to its new future.' He had said firm, not mill I noted.

  ‘What future would that be, Owen?’ I asked.

  Owen closed his mouth and did the thing with the lock and key on his lips again. The impression I got was that he knew he had said too much. Then he changed his mind and spoke, ‘That is not for you to know.'

  ‘Why is that?’ pressed Amanda.

  Owen refused to answer.

  Amanda and I continued to ask questions for almost an hour. When at one point he seemed to be getting impatient, Amanda asked him if he would be a darling and make some tea. When she smiled at him he had decided that tea sounded a great idea and had scampered off to his kitchen. This gave Amanda and I a few moments to converse.

  ‘What do you think?' she asked me once we heard noises coming from the kitchen.

  ‘I think he was innocent of the crime he was dismissed for but is up to something now. He and Brett were colluding on something. I heard rumour that he planned to close the Mill because it is losing money. How much truth there is to that I cannot yet tell. It looks run down though. The equipment is old, the staff are old. At least the ones I met were.

  Amanda opened her mouth to speak but was silenced by my phone ringing. The number that came up was a Dartford prefix but not one my phone recognised. I answered, ‘Blue Moon Investigations. Tempest Michaels speaking.'

  ‘Please hold.' Came the response, after which the voice
went away, leaving me with little choice but to hold.

  After a second or so, and just when I was considering not holding at all, I was connected with a new voice. This one sounded young, engaging and female, where the former voice had just sounded grumpy, old and womanly. ‘Mr. Michaels?'

  ‘Yes. Speaking.’

  ‘I am calling on behalf of Mr. Barker to advise you that you have a meeting this afternoon at one o'clock. The meeting will last thirty minutes. Please ensure you arrive early so that you do not miss your slot.'

  ‘Very good.’ I replied.

  ‘Thank you, Mr. Michaels. The meeting will take place in Mr. Barker's office. You can get directions to it from reception. One o'clock. Please be punctual.' she disconnected. There was no attempt to get my opinion on whether the meeting time suited me. It seemed likely that Brett Barker liked to play power games and did this to everyone. I had met people like him before and had always found them quite ridiculous. I wanted to meet with him though, so ducking the meeting or turning up deliberately late, would most likely not work in my favour. I had no interest in playing his games. If there was indeed a game to play because he was involved in this mystery, then I would win later, not now.

  Chat with Poison. Friday, 8th October 1100hrs

  We left Owen at 1035hrs and went back to my office. I left Amanda there to do some research and go through emails so that she could familiarise herself with the enquiries I receive. I excused myself and set off to attend to a task for myself.

  Just around the corner from my office is an occult bookshop that sells rare books, graphic novels, film and TV memorabilia, and comics. Basically, it sells anything that had a tangible link to the paranormal world. The bookshop is called Mystery Men and is run by Frank Decaux, a small, mousy man with the heart of a lion. I had discovered his bravery quite recently when he accompanied Big Ben and me on a case that put us into direct contact with a cult of vampire-wannabe idiots that had promptly tried to kill us. Frank was nevertheless completely mad and believed everything supernatural existed with a foaming-at-the-mouth fervour.