The Klowns of Kent

by steve higgs

  I trudged slowly across the Castle grounds. It was full of Police Officers. Stallholders were being kept at bay behind crime scene tape. One stall had caught fire and burnt to a charred crisp. It was a wet mess now and I wondered if the same fire team now packing away their gear had tackled the blaze in my office.

  I felt like I had lost, even though I would be told I had won.

  ‘Tempest.’ called Amanda from behind me. I still didn’t want to talk to her, but I turned anyway. I was at the edge of the grounds now, about to leave the area and all the drama behind me. ‘A squad car is at your neighbour’s house. She is fine. The dogs are fine. No one went there tonight.’

  He had bluffed me.

  I let out a breath that I did not know I had been holding. I mumbled my thanks, turned, and painfully, slowly ducked under the tape.

  ‘Tempest?’ she called me again. She wanted to talk, to clear the air perhaps. I was not ready to do so. I just kept on walking, I didn’t want her to see the anger and betrayal in my face.

  My car was in the car park behind my office. At least that was where I had left it earlier this evening. I was genuinely surprised to find it still sitting there, its shiny red paintwork unmolested. As I dug around in my pocket for my keys I looked up at my office. It was a burnt-out shell. Even the roof was gone, the supporting timbers reduced to blackened stubby fingers. There was nothing precious in it, but I had once read the most businesses do not survive a fire. Too much is lost, even if all the people survive, for the business to reopen again elsewhere quickly enough to not be supplanted by a competitor. Well,

  I had a competitor now even if he was in the hospital with a dent to his face.

  I shut the door to my car and went home.

  Postscript. Sunday, October 30th 1115hrs

  I was telling myself that I was overdue a break, that the business would function perfectly well without me and that I absolutely was not running away. I had been telling myself that for the past day since I made the decision to run away.

  Amanda had betrayed my trust. I was still not sure how I felt about it or about her and I did not want to be here tomorrow to deal with it. I had no live case that I was in the middle of, the cases the business did have could be tackled by Amanda in between her final few shifts, or they could just be left until I returned. I was telling myself it didn’t matter, and on that matter, I was probably correct.

  I was going away for the week. I was taking the dogs and the three of us were going to have a holiday. It was a bit cold for a break by the sea but that was what I was going to do anyway. We would have long walks along the coastal pathways and venture into the surrounding countryside and have cream teas by warm open fires in quaint, time-forgotten alehouses. I was genuinely looking forward to it, even if I did worry that what I was actually doing was running away.

  Yesterday, I had met with Jane and gave her the task of setting up the new office. We had gone shopping for a new computer and other office-essential equipment, then I set her up in my home office so that she could work from there. New stationary was ordered, and I was confident the business would tick over for a week without me directly at the helm. All Jane had to do was handle calls and emails, set Amanda up to tackle anything she felt like dealing with and maintain a presence for the firm.

  My Landlord, Tony Jarvis had called yesterday morning. The building we both occupied was well insured and would be rebuilt. He had a meeting on Monday to sign some paperwork but expected to have work started within a week. I imagined it might take a good deal longer than that but would be pleased to be proven wrong.

  I had barely slept the last two nights. The memory of choosing to let Deadface go still too fresh in my mind. It was not the first time in my life that a traumatic event had stolen my sleep. I had been in the Army for too many years and deployed to too many war zones to have avoided such things. One never gets used to it, but coping mechanisms do develop I suppose.

  Lying in bed last night, two snoring dogs in the otherwise empty other half of the bed and with sleep cruelly evading me, I had avoided thinking about the death of Nigel Havers by piecing together the final parts of the Klown case.

  The Klown spree of assault, battery, theft, and murder really had been all about me in a way. Nigel Havers was a broken man, beaten down by a poor start in life and an enormous chip on his shoulder that he could never get beyond. During his life he had endured the same amount of disappointments as anyone else might have; he had been dumped, been fired, had lost when he thought he would win, but unlike the rest of us who just move on, he had amassed a list of people to exact retribution upon.

  When I spoiled his plan to be turned into a vampire, I had cut off his intended method of revenge. Once supposedly made immortal he would have gone after all the people on his list of hate and bitten out their throats. That was my working theory anyway.

  Instead, he had formed a cult of Klowns. It was a testament to what he could have achieved with his life had he been sane. Attracted by the promise of revenge on everyone that had ever done them wrong, with a side order of making money through robbery, he had recruited criminals and set them tasks to perform. He had lured Adrian Plumber in by the expedient of adventure and excitement, two things that were missing from his life. The same sad story was probably true of many of the Klowns. The Police would undoubtedly uncover some of the details by interviewing the Klowns they had in custody but much of his motivation, his reason behind the Klowns had gone with him to his grave.

  Amanda had wisely given me some space after apologising yet again. Rather than call me or just come to my house, as she had been doing since we met, she had emailed me the news that the Klown I had knocked out in the Lockmeadow carpark, the one with the green wig, had finally woken up. He had missed the whole thing. His injuries were not permanent thankfully, but he was off to jail to join his friends.

  The press was having a field day with the story. There had been a local journalist at the Blood Fest, probably thinking it was a rubbish event to be assigned to cover. However, he was savvy enough to continue taking pictures as the crowd fled the Castle grounds and hung around in the shadows after that catching the action in still and video formats. Pictures of Poison in chainmail and helmet, twirling twin swords had made it onto the cover of two National papers. The nimble little minx had caused Frank's shop to be inundated with new customers apparently. I doubted he would be upset at the rush of business as he had probably lost a lot of stock on Friday night. The chap had also captured images of Big Dick and the clowns. His tiny stature and clown outfit made him stand out, so footage of the fight between clowns and Klowns was going viral on U-Tube. My involvement had made no more than a by-line. I had no problem with that. At least, I didn't until CI Quinn swept in and claimed to have stopped the Klowns through his department's great detective work and uncompromising bravery in facing the menace. He had been allowed to make a statement to a swarm of TV cameras on Friday night while the dust was still settling and I was at home drinking my fifth rum and coke and wondering if my ribs would ever heal.

  On the subject of my ribs, I had found myself forced to go to the hospital on Saturday morning to get some painkillers. Over the counter at the pharmacy ones were not going to do it. I had been healing. On Friday morning I had felt much improved, but if anything, the wound now was worse than when first inflicted. It was another reason to take myself away. I needed to find a place of solitude and quiet where I could properly relax. It was a necessary thing.

  Nevertheless, I was running away on some level and trying to ignore it as an inconvenient fact. The dogs were playing in the garden while I slowly loaded the car. I had booked a place to stay just an hour ago, a small pub that had two rooms above it. I reasoned that booking a room above a public house ensured an easy walk back to my lodgings once I had enjoyed a few relaxing drinks at the end of a day. They served food, so it was a Bed and Breakfast and probably dinner most nights as well.

  A week away to get my head straight. I would tell peop
le tomorrow, once I was there. Was that cowardly? Probably, but it was a tactic that would prevent my parents or Big Ben or Amanda or anyone else from talking me out of it.

  I closed the boot of my car, then closed the bonnet as well. The Porsche Boxster might look like it has no room for luggage, but the mid-engine design leaves a surprising amount of space both fore and aft. Enough for a suitcase, all the things the dogs might need, some sturdy walking boots and all the other paraphernalia I had packed just in case. I locked the car and went back to the house.

  There were two small black and tan faces pressed up against the glass of the back door. The dogs had exhausted the list of tasks they had for the garden. I let them in, performed a final check around the house, making sure windows were shut, the fridge was empty, the bins were empty. I left the heating on as Jane would be using the house as an office while I was away. She was the only person I had told about my intention to abscond. I simply told her I needed a break. If she had any concern about being left to run the firm she did not show it.

  I stood inside the front door, head cocked to one side wondering what I might have forgotten to do. I gave up after thirty seconds. If I had forgotten to pack something I would have to manage without. If I had forgotten to do something it would have to be dealt with upon my return.

  I whistled for the dogs, waited, then went to collect them from the sofa where they were pretending to be asleep. They scurried to the car while I locked up the house, then the three of us set off for Cornwall on the other side of the Country.

  We were going to Cawsand, a tiny fishing village on the South West coast that I had visited and fallen in love with as a child. I had not been back since but could already smell the sea, could already hear the waves crashing against the rocks of the rugged shore.

  At the end of my road, I turned the car around and went back for the directions to the pub which I had left by the computer.

  The End

  Note from the Author:

  Dear Reader,

  Please scroll down a few pages where you will find a fun extract from Book 4 in this series:

  Dead Pirates of Cawsand.

  Note from the Author:

  Hi there,

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  Books by Steve Higgs

  Click the links to find the books in your local Amazon store.

  Blue Moon Investigations

  Paranormal Nonsense

  The Phantom of Barker Mill

  Zombie Granny – a Short Story

  The Klowns of Kent

  Dead Pirates of Cawsand

  The Harper Files

  Can I Kick a Ghost in the Nuts?

  In the Doodoo With Voodoo

  Coming soon

  The Witches of East Malling

  Extract from Dead Pirates of Cawsand

  Where's Mum? Thursday, November 3rd 1615hrs

  As we sailed around the yacht and pointed the hull at land, the village of Cawsand slowly came into view. It looked so tranquil, so picturesque laid out in front of us like that. The sun was peeking through the clouds creating sun beams that lit up the village and made the sea sparkle as it moved. From our position out to sea, one would never know there was anything boiling beneath the surface of the welcoming streets. Behind us, the sun was setting, and a heavy cloud bank was moving in. It would be dark soon.

  My phone pinged with an incoming text. Dad had one hand on the tiller, he raised his eyebrows at the sound but left me to check it out.

  Swiping the screen, I brought up the message. It was from Mum.

  ‘No. No. No. No. NO!’

  ‘What’s up kid?’ asked Dad.

  I didn’t answer right away, I tried calling her instead. The phone rang but was not answered. I tried again with the same result. Dad was waiting patiently, a little concern on his face.

  I showed him the message. Mum had decided to go undercover. She had been eavesdropping on Tilda and had overheard her talking about the need to do something with pirates tonight. Mother failed to tell us where she was going, but she was taking the dogs for a walk and was going to see if she could find out if my theories were true.

  Dad’s face was grim, as well it might be. Mum was rubbish at being inconspicuous. She was likely wearing dark glasses (on a cloudy day in November) and thinking she would not be noticed because of them. We needed to get back to shore and find her. I’ll tell you this about boats though. If you have never sailed, you might not appreciate this: Boats move slow. When it feels like you are whipping along, feeling like you are barely sticking to the water because you are moving so fast, the little dingy thing you are in is maybe going eight knots. I can run faster.

  I wanted to get back to land, ditch the boat and look for Mum before she got herself into trouble, but land was a mile away and it was another twenty minutes before Dad and I were impatiently tying onto the dock and abandoning it. The chap that had rented it to us was coming to inspect it and return the security deposit, but we were already running away as he yelled at us.

  ‘Where do you think she is?’ Dad asked.

  I slowed to a walk. I had not the faintest idea. I wanted to say somewhere in Cawsand and she almost certainly was, but even though it is a tiny village there are still a thousand houses she could be in, plus other buildings and there are boats going in and out all the time – it would be hard to find her if she were already on a boat. As we left the harbour to join the winding streets, there were still plenty of people about. Out of season tourists drawn by the buzz of excitement about the village, treasure hunters of all manner and of course the local populace.

  I leaned close to Dad so I could speak quietly to him, ‘Let's get back to the room. Mum may have left a note for us there. If not then we need to change, call Roberta and start poking around.' Dad was looking worried as we hurried around the corner to the pub. ‘Don't worry, Dad. We'll find her.'

  ‘We could just go for a pint you know. If they have her it will not be long before they want to give her back.’ He was making a joke to lighten our moods. Like me he was an ex-serviceman and this was typical behaviour when dealing with high stress situations.

  Mum wasn’t in the room though and there was no note from her. The front door to the pub was locked for the first time since I had arrived, thankfully the key to my room had the second key for the front door on the same ring. I had been carrying it with me since I arrived so was able to let us both in.

  Upstairs, at least the room was unmolested, but the dogs were gone along with their leads and Mum was still not answering her phone. I gave up on calling her and rang Roberta.

  She answered on the third ring. ‘Hi, Tempest.' there was a slightly sexy purr to her voice like she was thinking private thoughts about naked romping and I had just interrupted them. ‘What are you up to right now?'

  ‘Sorry, Roberta. I have a bit of an emergency and I need your help.’

  She switched to her serious voice. ‘What do you need me to do?’

  ‘My Mother has gone missing. She left us a mysterious note saying that she was off to follow your Aunt.’ I needed to tell Roberta a little more now. ‘Roberta, your Aunt might be mixed up in the ghost thing.’

  ‘Rubbish, Tempest.’

  ‘Not just her, Roberta. I think others might be as well.’ I held back from saying I thought her Mum might be at the apex of the conspiracy.

  ‘Tempest, do you have any evidence at all?’ she demanded.

  ‘Not yet. Not a damned thing.’

  She was quiet for a moment as if thinking. I gave her a moment but then had to press her. ‘Roberta, my Mum is missing. Let's assume I am wrong about everything, she has still followed your Aunt somewhere. Where might she be?'

  ‘Where might my Aunt be at this time on a Thursday
? I have no idea, Tempest. Somewhere in Cawsand.’

  ‘Help me narrow it down, Roberta. Your Aunt owns a couple of businesses. I know their names but not their locations. I need to start looking in places where she might be, and I could do with your help before she gets herself into trouble.’ I had pleading in my voice.

  ‘Okay, Tempest. Let's work together, I am sure we can find your Mum.' Roberta outlined three places we should start looking. One was down on the beach near The Cleve or just along from it, an old fisherman's shack that Tilda was planning to turn into a harbour tours business. It was closer to her so she would check that out and meet us in front of the pub shortly. One of the others was at the far western end of the village, high up on the cliff overlooking the sea. Roberta had said it was almost certainly not there that they had gone to as it was abandoned and falling down. Dad and I were already close to it though, so I was going to eliminate it anyway.

  We disconnected. ‘Ready?’ I asked Dad. He had changed into dry gear but had on much the same rugged outdoor clothing as before. Wondering what we would be heading into I wanted to put on my combat gear and armour. It was at home though where it belonged, so I settled for grey jeans and a pair of walking boots plus a dark sweater over the top. We were basically going to be sneaking around the village looking in windows for murdering conspirators. Bright clothing would not be appropriate for the task.

  I left Mum a note on the bed just in case and the pair of us rushed out, down the stairs and into the street. In the ten minutes we had been inside, the cloud bank had crept in and blackened out the little natural light that might remain at this time of day. It was getting foggy too. This close to the shore the weather conditions could change suddenly. I knew that, but this had been threatening most of the day and had finally arrived.