by steve higgs
‘Oh, Yes. The majority shares pass from heir to heir do they not? Unless the heir is found guilty of criminal behaviour and given a custodial sentence.’ Her eyes widened. ‘I have been doing some digging this morning. You see, Brett is innocent. I found the breadcrumb trail. It wasn’t easy to get the firm’s lawyer to talk. I had to get Old Sam and Ronald involved to achieve that.’
Around the table, the suited attendees were keeping quiet and listening. Most were pushed back in their chairs and listening. The elderly gentleman was looking at Mrs. Barker.
‘Those two idiots? You waste my time and yours, Mr. Michaels. Go home. Keep your bonus and stop being ridiculous.' Her confidence had returned.
‘I think not, Margaret. You found Martin Wilkins, seduced him with sex and money and had him supply you with fake heart medication for your husband. Then, you arranged for him to be employed at your firm in a position that pays more than it should so that he would keep quiet while you waited for your husband to die and for Brett to fall into your neatly crafted trap.' She said nothing. ‘You also took Mr. Larkin here as a lover because you needed to keep Brett distracted and to plant evidence in his office. Who better to act as the double agent than his own man.'
I turned to look at Owen. ‘What did she promise you? Money? Her eternal love?'
I saw him move but expected that he would just get out of his seat and start shouting. Instead, he leapt onto his seat and then the table and dived at me. He is lighter and shorter than I and was fuelled by anger, rather than fighting knowledge. I was caught momentarily off guard, but amid the sea of shocked faces, I was able to react fast enough. I feigned a move towards him as he lunged, then spun away at the last moment sweeping his hands up and away from me as they tried to grasp my face. He shot past me with his hands now no longer protecting his face and slammed into the skirting board of the wall behind me. He lay still. I calmly bent to check his pulse, then rose again satisfied that he was just knocked out and would most likely come around again quite soon.
This had happened so fast that my own pulse had not had the opportunity to react.
‘Brett is being released from custody as we speak. When forensic accounting go through his records, will they find that he made the payment to Palmer Pharmaceuticals from his office? Or will it be that it was made from the office of the Financial Director of the firm as she has access to everyone's company credit cards?'
‘Is any of this true?' asked the elderly gentleman, staring at Mrs. Barker.
On the table in front of them was a large architect's drawing of a riverfront paradise. It showed large buildings surrounded by trees and green areas. The buildings might have been offices or residential accommodation, but the piece of land shown was unmistakably the site of the Barker Mill. She had plotted to get rich.
I wondered how long ago she had started planning this moment. Was it years? Had she married George Barker with a plan in mind? Had she unwittingly discovered that with her husband dead and Brett incarcerated she would become the new recipient of the Mill and then plotted to make it happen? I would never know.
Jagjit had stayed quiet thus far but caught my eye now. He looked like he wanted to ask me something, but I shook my head and looked away. I doubted it would serve him well at the firm if they learned he was an acquaintance of mine. We would talk later.
Mrs. Barker still had not answered the elderly gentleman but was now getting up and gathering her things. If she planned to leave I would make no attempt to stop her. The police would pick her up soon enough, but as that thought was thinking itself, I heard voices in the corridor outside.
The door opened, and the same young lady showed in two men in shabby suits. Amanda was behind them. Mrs. Barker looked ready to kill, she was clearly incensed that her plan was unravelling.
I stepped out into the corridor as the two men showed their warrant cards and introduced themselves. Now my task really was done, and the case truly closed. What I would do with my knowledge of the Phantom I had not yet decided. It was quite an intriguing story, but I was keeping it to myself for now.
Amanda had not gone into the room so was left with me in the corridor. Behind me, we could hear Mrs. Barker being read her rights.
‘Hey, how’s it going?’ I asked her.
‘Working for you is certainly different.’ she replied. I was not sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. So, I asked her. ‘Good mostly.’ she answered.
I did not press for more detail.
‘I am done here, I think. Case solved, nothing else to do. Mrs. Barker was good enough to pay us already. Shall we get a coffee somewhere?' Mr. Wriggly had already noticed her cleavage was visible and that she looked as sexy as hell in her tight jeans today. I was just trying to be polite and engaging but, as always, he was whispering other thoughts directly into my brain.
‘I have to go but thank you. I am going back to Dartford to see Brett released from custody. He would have been transferred to prison tonight or tomorrow morning rather than held at a station.'
‘How is he?’ I asked.
‘If anything, he is grateful that we exposed his evil stepmother’s plans. I will be filling him in on all the details on the way to Paris.’
‘Paris?’ I asked, already certain I knew the answer.
‘He offered to take me for dinner again. Now that I know he is innocent I could not think of a reason to reject him.' Mr. Wriggly made some seriously displeased noises and comments about the tiny penis Brett would most likely be wielding.
I nodded, just so that I had something for my face to do. ‘Well, enjoy your trip, I guess.' I managed, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice. ‘I will see you on Monday?'
‘No, I have a shift then, but I will call you and I am free later that week.'
‘Okay. Speak later then.’ I turned and left her to whatever tasks she was still to perform with the two plain-clothes officers and headed back out of the office to make my way home.
Walking through Canary Wharf, I called Mrs. Collins. I owed her a full report in person and was quite thankful when she said not to bother and requested a written report instead. I imagined her affairs were most likely in disarray, her husband booted out, business no longer tenable now she could not trust her staff and perhaps a complex divorce to sort out. I silently hoped I would not be called upon to provide statements or act as a witness if a divorce were to go ahead.
Forty minutes later and back at Dartford station I collected my car, thankful that I had prudently paid for a full days parking as right then the car next to mine was receiving a fixed penalty on its windscreen in a sticky bag.
Rochester High Street Flower Shop. Friday, 15th October 1600hrs
I drove back to the office in Rochester. My working day was very much at an end and as I had nothing more that I needed to do before I went home, I intended to try one more time to catch up with Hayley. It had now been most of a week since we had spent the night together and I had received no response to my earlier text. I was not sure what that meant but it felt unlikely that it was a positive sign. I elected to buy some flowers and drop them off at the coffee shop. If she wasn't there, I felt certain that one of her colleagues would let her know that I had brought them in for her.
There was a florist just a couple of doors along from the coffee shop, so I went in there and asked for a bouquet of pretty, pink flowers. I did not want red roses because they suggested a deeper sense of affection than I wanted to convey. It was supposed to be a token of affection, or gratitude maybe. I waited patiently while the lady pulled the bouquet together and wrapped them up for me.
Outside it was beginning to get dark. I was still buoyant from finishing up the Phantom case and caught myself humming a happy tune as I strolled airily along the street.
The attack came as a surprise.
I reeled from the initial blow to my face, shocked more than hurt but went with the strike to put distance between myself and my attacker. Then the information update arrived in my brain and I
realised I had been slapped. Not punched or kicked or hit with a weapon. I had been slapped on my face. And the slapper was Hayley.
She was stood facing me now, her chest heaving from the surge of adrenalin. ‘You utter twat.' She spat at me. ‘Are those for her?' she asked indicating the flowers.
Utterly befuddled, my mouth opened and closed a few times while I struggled for an answer.
‘Answer me, you pathetic man whore.’ she demanded, screeching. People were stopping to watch the street theatre now.
‘Her who?’ I had to ask.
‘Wha…?' she started to ask. ‘You men are all such players. You think you can just shag us and shag everyone else.'
‘I bought you flowers.’ I managed weakly, still having no idea what was going on. ‘I don’t know who else you think I have been shagging, but…’
‘Fuck off.’ She screamed, cutting me off. ‘I saw you with the cute blond three times this week already.’
What blond. I asked myself. Amanda? When would she have seen me with her?
‘Don't bother coming here for your coffee.' She twirled and stormed back inside the coffee shop, leaving me on the street with more than a dozen strangers all staring at me. I looked at them now. They each decided the show was over and drifted away. I looked at the flowers in my hand and walked over to a bin. As I was about to throw them in, I saw a copy of the local paper, The Weald World shoved loosely in. It was the headline on the page that caught my eye:
Klown attack?
I picked the slightly crumpled paper out of the bin, inspected it briefly to ensure there was nothing icky stuck to it and stood in the street reading the article.
Klown attack? Following recent reports of clown activity, this reporter believes there is something sinister going on. Graffiti adorns our walls telling us the Klowns are coming.
Below there was a photograph of a wall with that exact message displayed in crude spray writing.
Fourteen attacks have been recorded in the last week, each with escalating violence. The latest attack occurred in Canterbury where Judith Tennant suffered a stab wound after being chased by a clown on her way home from work. Miss Tennant described her attacker as a traditional circus clown in every way except for the face paint, which was horrific.
I kept reading. The article was written by Sharon Maycroft, a person I knew quite well and had an unfulfilled promise by her to get together for nocturnal activities soon. Given how much my right cheekbone was stinging now after my last bout of nocturnal activity had somehow gone awry, I might steer clear. She was, however, a reliable reporter. Klown reports were becoming popular. It was a case for the police really, not for me. But I did have a plea for help already so I could envisage myself being drawn into the Klown silliness yet. Sharon outlined how many attacks had taken place and where. They were all in different towns across Kent and the description of the attacker in each case was similar, but also dissimilar enough to make it sound like there might be more than one person. Sharon was hinting at this, but it seemed more likely to me that it was the same guy dressing differently each time.
I put the paper back in the bin. Decided to keep the flowers and headed back to my car. Despite my stinging face and marked downturn in the likelihood of Mr. Wriggly getting any action this weekend, it was, nevertheless Friday night and that meant the pub beckoned. I had a steak in my fridge waiting to hit the pan and life was good enough to be savoured.
The Dirty Habit Public House. Friday, 15th October 1917 hrs
The dogs had been glad to see me as usual. I sat on the floor in my kitchen and fussed them for a while. Then, because it was almost dinner time I cracked a can of dog food and sat on the floor once more, stroking their fur while they ate.
With bellies full, they lost interest in me and headed for the back door. I would be taking them for a long walk to the pub shortly, so sent them to relieve themselves in the garden while I made a cup of tea.
As I walked to the pub an hour later, my own belly full of steak and sweet potato fries I looked back on the case.
I had taken Kerry with me to track down her Grandfather. We found him in his boiler room with Ronald. They had both greeted Kerry as she went through the door before me, asking her what she was doing down on the shop floor, but stopped talking quickly when I came in behind her. Their immediate silence told me I had guessed right.
I told them that Brett was innocent and that another party was to blame then implored them to tell me the truth. They had looked at each other and said nothing, but when Kerry started talking instead, Old Sam waved her into silence saying that she would only tell it wrong.
Old Sam had seen Mr. Miller wearing the Phantom outfit on a fateful day in his first month at the Mill. When Barry had fallen from the rafters and he had followed the shadow, it was distinctly Mr. Miller's face that had appeared from beneath the cowl of the cloak. For days he had wondered if he should say something but had not done so because he could not work out what to say or who to say it to. He spent months searching different areas of the Mill for the Phantom outfit, wondering where Mr. Miller had stashed it.
He very quickly found though that he had become Mr. Miller's favourite. He was given the best jobs to perform, those that carried some degree of responsibility and some weeks later, when the owner, Mr. Barker had visited the foundry floor to view production, he had been introduced to him as one of the rising stars. Bewildered by the praise, he had caught Mr. Miller's eye. Mr. Miller just winked at him and made a shushing motion with one finger to his mouth.
The Phantom attack had been solely to stop Barry from shagging his daughter, Old Sam was certain of that. Whether the Phantom had ever been real he could not say, but no other attacks happened for several years and when the next incident did occur it had happened when Mr. Miller was in plain sight. Old Sam decided that it was just an accident and nothing to do with the Phantom at all, but everyone had automatically blamed the Phantom as if no other explanation was needed. Mr. Miller had joined in the chorus and had used it as a warning that the Phantom protected the Mill and was displeased with output. For a month production had increased by twenty percent with no extra hours being worked. Old Sam had learned something about people that night. He was soon promoted to a supervisory position above many of the older men that had trained him.
To Old Sam's knowledge, Mr. Miller never saw a need to play the role of the phantom again. In 1987 Mr. Miller retired. Old Sam considered going to visit him at home to ask him about the Phantom but before he could do so Mr. Miller suffered a heart attack and died. A week later a black cloak and an articulated steel hand with an asbestos handle had arrived in a parcel addressed to him. There was a handwritten note which Old Sam produced from a locker against the wall behind him. It was crumpled and tattered from age but still perfectly legible.
Dear Samuel,
I came into the possession of the Phantom's hand many years ago when my father retired. I have been sworn to secrecy my entire life, but perhaps in death, I can finally tell the truth. The first Phantom was nothing more than a shadow seen by my Grandfather. He made a comment as a joke but the chap next to him took it seriously and when someone was hurt the next day in an accident the Phantom was blamed, and the legend was born. My Grandfather was a senior Mill supervisor, much like me and saw an opportunity to influence and motivate the workers through the Phantom. He used it to get more from them, to stop them wandering off for a crafty fag and to explain away equipment problems to the owner when he had himself messed up. My father took over from him and I from my father. I confess that I used the Phantom for my own purposes and that I should not have. It was not my intention for the walkway to collapse and cause such terrible injuries. I merely wanted to frighten Barry.
I have no son of my own, so I pass the Phantom's hand and cloak to you to do with as you please. I believe you to be a trustworthy man and hope that you will act in the best interests of the Mill.
Yours
Archibald Miller
When Brett B
arker began to wield his power and started to speak out against how the Mill was run, Old Sam had chosen to bring the Phantom out of retirement. He had never worn the cloak himself and now he was too old to do so. He confided in an old friend at the Mill and together he and Ronald had hatched a plot to frame Brett Barker. His granddaughter Kerry was reluctant at first but had relented when they convinced her everyone's job was in danger.
Brett Barker had no intention of shutting the Mill. He had a secret deal with Zoom-It, the massive online retailer. He was going to sell them steel at almost cost price to meet their European building plans and had struck a deal that meant any equipment in poor repair would be replaced at Zoom-It's expense. He had a chance to secure the future of the Mill and thus everyone's jobs for the next decade and could simultaneously get new foundry equipment. All he had to do was target some of the older machines to accelerate their wear. He had secured his family legacy but fought with his Grandfather who could see no reason to change anything about their current operation. Under an iron-clad non-disclosure agreement, he could not even tell his Grandfather what he had planned. The only person he had involved in the meetings with Zoom-It was Owen Larkin. That was why Brett Barker had continued to deal with him after his Grandfather fired him and why he paid him off.
Owen Larkin was working for Mrs. Barker though. Every decision Brett made Owen relayed directly to her. Every plan, every thought that Brett had was shared. The man Brett trusted above all others was the one betraying him at every turn. It had messed with Owen's plan when the crane locks out had appeared in his car and the old man had fired him. Brett came to the rescue though - the irony was stark. Brett had not been at the other end of the phone call I had overheard outside Owen's house. He had seen me and called Mrs. Barker. Together they played me like a fiddle and nearly got away with it.