by steve higgs
I pressed send and away the text flew.
Sat waiting for Jane to return, I remembered that I had still not booked the venue for the baby shower that was in two days. The realisation gave me a moment of panic. I wanted to book a local place, local to where I was currently sat that is. There are several tea rooms in Rochester, all of which are nice but there was one I had visited on a lunch date some time ago. I had spotted that it had a private function room and I knew it was very cute and served excellent food in very sensible portions.
I pulled up a search engine on my phone, then changed my mind. I didn’t want to call them. I needed their function room at short notice so needed to discuss face to face when they could fit the party in and maybe grease a palm in the process.
Jane returned, daintily sipping her coffee and holding a little paper bag that most likely contained a cake of some kind. She was wearing ladies leather gloves in a pastel blue that matched her winter coat and scarf. I really wanted to know where a transvestite bought such items. Probably the internet, but I wondered if they were expensive as they were clearly designed to look like women's items while being able to fit a man. The gloves especially must have been hard to come by.
‘I have to run an errand.’ I told her as I got up. ‘Are you okay to open up?’
‘Of course.’
‘I should not be long, but please go through the latest emails and messages. I will take you through financing and invoices when I get there.’
‘Okay, boss.’ she replied with a smile.
I held the coffee shop door open for her and closed it behind me. Jane crossed the road towards the office, fumbling in her Radley messenger bag for her keys. I turned left and headed to The Queen Victoria Tea Rooms.
I got back to the office forty minutes later. Booking the baby shower had taken longer than I had expected but it had also proven to be cheaper than I had budgeted for and it was now pretty much organised. Food, location, decoration all done. I followed up the email I sent to Rachael’s friends on Sunday night with a new email updating them with the venue address, a link to The Queen Victoria Tea Rooms website and advice on what time to arrive and where to park in case they were unfamiliar with the location. I also called mum so that she could handle the ladies she was bringing along.
Upstairs in the office, Jane was sat at the desk, one hand on the mouse and staring intently at the computer screen. She did not look up when I came in, but she did speak.
‘Have you read anything about clowns recently?
‘Clowns?’
‘Yeah. I read something in the paper last week about clowns being spotted late at night, in places one should not see a clown and how the clowns were not very friendly looking. Then there were reports of girls being chased by clowns and then last night a young married couple was chased. The man challenged the pair of clowns that were following them, and he was stabbed.'
I had read similarly worrying reports but had not seen this most recent one.
‘Anyway, you have an email from a woman who claims her brother has joined a clown cult. She spells it K-L-O-W-N though. She wants you to investigate and bring him back.’
A cult of Klowns. It sounded harmless enough, I felt like making jokes about the activities the klown cult might get up to. Throwing buckets of water that turned out to be filled with confetti, or practicing falling over their own huge feet. Did their uniform come with a spinning bow tie? I held back though and asked to see the email.
‘I printed you a copy.’ Jane said holding up a sheet of paper.
Dear Sir,
I am writing to beg for your help. A week ago, my brother disappeared, but the police do not class him as a missing person because he is still answering his phone and sending text messages. He met someone and has run a way to become a klown. He has changed his name and says that he is not coming home until their mission is complete. I don’t know what his mission might be, but I have seen reports of klowns scaring and now attacking people and I think he is somehow mixed up in it all.
He is a good boy. Can you find him and bring him home?
I read the email twice. It was my kind of work. Sort of. It certainly had the weird element going on.
‘Please contact her and set up an appointment.’
‘When for?’
‘Monday, if that works for her. I can go to her or she can come here. Whichever suits her best.’ I answered after a few seconds of deliberation.
‘I will set up a diary on your email system and link it to your phone so that I don’t need to call you every time I need to organise your movements.’ Jane’s ability to organise my work activities combined with a natural confidence to do so was impressing me.
‘Any other emails of interest?’ I asked.
‘Um, all of them?’ she hazarded, clearly unsure what the right answer was.
‘Doubtful. I have not read them, but typically I get maybe one enquiry a day that has some merit to it.’ Jane looked confused. ‘Why don’t you pick one that you believe we should consider? Then we can go through it together.’ I wanted Jane to be able to sift the email and phone enquiries and spot the stupid ones and the ones that I could make money from.
‘Okay.’ she said fiddling with the mouse to scroll through the emails. ‘How about this one? Geoff Gudeon of Mereworth reports that his girlfriend may be suffering from the early stages of a werewolf curse. He believes that it may be linked with moon patterns as every few weeks her behaviour shifts.’ I waited while Jane read a little more to herself. ‘He goes on to say that for a week she becomes unpleasant, difficult to please, grouchy etcetera. She had not yet started to growl, and her teeth have not grown but he is concerned that he may be living with a woman that is going to change into a werewolf at the next full moon. Does he need to be scared?’
I eyed Jane suspiciously in case she was yanking my chain. ‘Seriously?’ I asked. ‘The man’s girlfriend gets bad PMT and turns into a bitch. Case solved. If we charge him for providing an answer to his daft question it would be swindling him. Next one.’
‘Oh. Um.’ More mouse fiddling. ‘Here is one that sounds serious.’
‘Hit me.’
‘Sandra Gross thinks she was hypnotised into being a zombie.’
I opened my mouth to dismiss it as ridiculous hokum. The lady had most likely had gone to a crappy hypnotist show with a few friends, had imbibed one too many cocktails or had dropped a pill, but instead of voicing my opinion I found that I wanted to hear more.
‘What else does she write.’
‘Sandra tells us that she went to a show by the Great Howsini, then there is a whole bit about how she was approached after the show because she was just right for being hypnotised. The Great Howsini wanted to conduct some experimental sessions with her among some other special persons. The sessions would be free. Blah, blah, blah. Then she says that she went to the session but when she came around from being hypnotised she had lost five hours and was in a car park in Pluckley, miles from where she had started out. Blah, blah, blah, no memory of getting there but she had an overwhelming sense of wanting to eat human flesh.’ Jane looked up from reading the screen. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think there might be something to it. Please file it somewhere to be considered later.’
Jane and I went through a few more of the email enquiries that had been received in the last twenty-four hours. I explained that I needed her to view each with the very simple standpoint that there was no paranormal and so every single case had a perfectly ordinary explanation. Jane seemed dubious, a trait that I had to forgive. I had learned that most people had a willingness to accept, to a greater or lesser extent, bizarre answers to quandaries that had ordinary explanations. To assist her I wrote, "There is no paranormal" on the board opposite the desk in large letters.
‘Shall we go through the financial stuff?’
‘Sure thing.’ said Jane.
For the next hour, I went over the firm's finances, the paperwork, how to produce invoices etcet
era. It was dry, but necessary stuff. The task complete, I had run out of routine things to show her. I checked my watch: 1137hrs. The spectral dog case needed to be pursued and I needed to perform some research, so I might as well do it here with Jane and show her a skill that might prove helpful later.
‘Shove over.’ I said while coming around the desk. I grabbed one of the chairs from by the window and plonked it down next to her as she slid her chair away from the keyboard.
My intention was to resolve the case, in part at least, by catching the spectral dog. With the pooch out of the way, there would be no reason for Mrs. Collins not to reopen the business. This would not determine where her husband had got to, but I was betting that he was alive and well and staying somewhere else. He had not been eaten by a ghost dog after all. So, where was he?
I performed some internet searches with Jane watching and we found out a little bit about the man. Mrs. Collins had given me a photograph upon my request. His age was recorded as fifty-eight so the picture I had was maybe ten years old - he still had mostly brown hair in it. He did not appear in any social media but there had been a couple of newspaper articles about his business when it had been investigated for illegally tipping scrap parts in the countryside. The report did not say whether the allegations had been proven true or not. Mr. Collins was overweight but not obese. Like most men, he was carrying a good few extra pounds around his waist. Regular trips to the pub would do that. He was a big man though, broad-shouldered and tall at over six feet by my estimation. He had probably been considered good looking when he was younger and might still be so by women of a similar age.
An hour of searching the internet gave me nothing helpful. I explained to Jane that at this stage of a case I had to feel my way around. Using the standard assumption that there was nothing supernatural going on I would form a theory based on what else could have happened and then explore those options. I believed that if Mr. Collins was not at home and was not spending money on his credit card – he was not, I had Mrs. Collins check every day, then he had to be shacked up somewhere. He could be staying at a mate's house, but it felt more likely that he had a lady on the side and he was with her. Mrs. Collins told me that he regularly worked late and very often came home later because he was going via the pub. The pub then, if indeed he had ever been going there, was a next most sensible place to visit. The public house was called The Morning Star. I had to look up where it was. Getting there would be easy enough and it was only a few miles away.
Before I went to the pub I needed to go home, have some lunch and take the dogs for a walk. I left Jane to lock up, saying that I would see her the next morning.
On the way home, I called Jagjit and asked to borrow his car. I would need it tonight as he drove a large utility vehicle and the large load bed in the rear would be used to transport the dog to a safe place if we were successful in catching it
I had instructed Big Ben to get an animal control pole from the vet lady. I probably could have bought one, but I had no desire to buy things when I could borrow them, and I doubted I would need it again any time soon, if ever. I also told him to get drugs that we could use to knock the beast out with. It was a cliché, but I intended to feed it a steak loaded with the drug and allow it to knock itself out. If the CCTV footage was anything to go by, the dog was big and big dogs are strong and have big teeth. Dealing with a sleeping giant hellhound felt safer.
I got home at 1316hrs. The dogs were waiting as always. In contrast to recent days, the sun was shining, so we went straight out for a walk. The pair of tiny dogs pulled at their leads, each trying to get to the next smell first. I followed them where they wanted to go, feeling relaxed and happy. The dogs usually calmed or soothed whatever troubles might be bothering me.
The circuitous route around the village led me back to my house at 1357hrs. I made a wholemeal chicken wrap loaded with raw vegetables, shook some hot sauce on to it to keep my metabolism firing and emptied the washing machine. Basic tasks complete, I checked myself in the mirror to make sure that I did not have food stuck to my teeth or dribble on my collar then headed out to see if I could track down the missing Mr. Edgar Collins.
The Morning Star Public House. Thursday, 15th October 1517hrs
Finding the pub had been simple enough, I had just followed the satnav. It was formed from an end of terrace house as the row of houses met the corner formed by the confluence of two roads, Barnes Street and Maple Road. It was poorly kept, the paint was flaking from the walls and the window frames, several panes of glass were broken and had been taped back together, and in front and just to the side of the main door was a stain where someone had recently vomited. Whoever had been tasked with cleaning it up had done a poor job. In general, it was a bit cruddy looking.
I pushed the door open. Inside was not much better. It was mid-afternoon on a Friday and there were more people inside than there ought to be. Perhaps I was being prejudiced. Whatever the case, there were more than twenty chaps of varying ages stood around the bar or sat at the tables drinking beer or ale. Most of them looked up as I entered. I was inappropriately dressed and stood out wearing smart office clothes where they were all in working clothes. I elected to ignore the stares and proceeded to the bar.
The gentleman behind the counter radiated a personality that made me confident he was the Landlord. I ordered a pint of lager and asked him if he was.
‘I am indeed.' he replied. ‘Is there something I can help you with.' he asked, giving me an easy opener.
I produced the picture of Mr. Collins. ‘I am looking for my Uncle.' I lied. ‘I have been in the Army overseas for years. Now I am back and as I don't have much family I was hoping to reconnect with Uncle Ed. I was a boy the last time I saw him, and he used to drink here, so this is the start point of my search.'
If he questioned the story he showed no sign of it. He took the picture I was showing him, peered at it squinting, swore and then looked around for his glasses which were on a string around his neck. Finally finding them, he still had to move the picture towards his face and away from it to bring it into focus. ‘Oh, its Eddie.' he said. ‘We don't see him much.' He took a couple of paces along the bar and shouted through a gap in the wall, ‘Rita.' A few seconds ticked by. ‘Rita, my love.'
‘What?’ a distant female voice came back.
‘When did you last see, Eddie?’
‘Who?’
‘Eddie?’
‘Eddie who?' It seemed like this might go on for a while. I took a sip of my pint. I didn't really want a beer at this time of the day, or even this time of the week but it seemed appropriate to order a drink since I was in a bar.
A lady, whom I assumed was Rita, appeared from the gap in the wall, wiping her hands on a pinny around her waist. Like the Landlord, she looked like she could wrestle drunks out the door and probably open a beer bottle with her bum if required.
‘What are you on about, you daft old bugger?’ she asked.
‘Eddie.’ He started again, this time showing her the picture. ‘When did you last see him in here?’
‘She took the photograph and examined it. Who wants to know?’
‘His nephew.’ he explained pointing at me. I smiled back.
‘He was in here for a bit last week with Sharon. Or was that the week before?' she asked herself. ‘No, I think it was last week, maybe on Thursday night. They stopped for a drink and then went again.' I was focussing on the name Sharon and wishing I had a photograph of Mrs. Collins to show them so that I could confirm by elimination that he had another lady. It had been my original theory after all.
‘Do you know if he lives around here then?’ I asked.
‘Sorry, Love.’ Rita replied. ‘That I cannot help you with.’
‘You said he was here with Sharon. I know he remarried but I thought her name was Louise. I am probably wrong though. Is she a tall lady with blonde hair?’
‘What, Sharon? No, love. Sharon is short, fat and ugly.’ she laughed as if she had said someth
ing particularly funny.
I had picked a description that was very much not Mrs. Collins just in case it was his wife that had been in with him and the Landlady just had the name wrong. Short, fat and ugly might be a harsh, if accurate description, but it was not Mrs. Collins. I thanked her and the Landlord for their time and took the photograph back. Rita disappeared back through the hole in the wall and the Landlord moved off to serve another customer.
I took a sip of my drink. Edgar Collins was having an affair, that much seemed certain now. He had kept it from his wife for however long it had been going on but was now most likely shacked up permanently with the new woman. So, I knew why he was missing, but not where he was and still had no idea what part the dog played in this. His disappearance and the spectral dog showing up could not be a coincidence. With luck, I would catch the dog tonight, get Mrs. Collins and her employees back to work and in so doing would flush out her husband. If not, then I felt certain I could perform some non-paranormal investigating and find the address for the short, fat ugly Sharon and in turn, assuming I was right, Edgar Collins.
I had downed less than half of the pint of lager. Quite sufficient I felt. I tapped my pockets to confirm I had my wallet, phone, and keys and left the pub quite happily behind me.
My watch ticked through 1600hrs as I was getting into my car. I was leaving my visit to the breaker's yard until it was dark. I had been there during the day and had seen nothing. I was guessing again, but my guess was that Edgar or one of his chaps was bringing the dogs in at night. I debated setting up an observation post to film that person delivering the dogs, but the equipment I owned was not sophisticated enough. I could therefore only hope to catch them by jumping out from my hiding place when they were doing so. Of course, they were not committing a crime. If it was Edgar setting the dogs then it was technically his property, so all I could do was report back to Mrs. Collins.
The internal debate left me getting to the yard once it was dark, letting ourselves in and seeing if anything happened. We might not get lucky on the first night and I would have to rethink the plan if we struck out for more than a couple of nights in a row. I had a good feeling though, so I gave Big Ben a call, told him what time I would collect him and outlined the plan.