by steve higgs
Returning sixty seconds later, with the soggy, pee covered box and the paper I had carefully placed back inside it held gingerly in my hands, I met Jane at her desk.
Looking around I said, ‘We need something to put this on.’
‘Oh, ah. Is it very wet? The carpet tile is only short.’
‘And the dog peed on it.’
‘Eww.’ Said Jane in a very girly manner before fishing her abandoned magazine from the trash. Opened to the centre spread, it made a mat for the box to rest on. She peered at it, not wanting to get too close. ‘What is it?’
‘That is the question. I think the writing on the outside is Ukrainian. Something fishy is happening at the Dockyard involving Ukrainians. I have no idea what yet and this box might be nothing or might be something. There’s a maker’s mark on the outside. Do what you can to find out what the contents might be used for please.’
Jane simply nodded, opened her handbag to retrieve a pair of eyebrow tweezers from a small manicure kit and used them to touch the box. I thought she was being overly delicate, but I kept my mouth shut.
‘It smells a bit.’ She complained.
‘Be quick then?’ I offered. I was going back to the Dockyard. ‘When you are done with it, please move it to the back room. Don’t throw it away as it might be evidence.’
As I went to the back door with the dogs trotting behind me, Jane settled at her desk to see what she could find.
Chatham Royal Dockyard. Tuesday, November 22nd 1412hrs
There was a very light drizzle coming down on my drive back to the Dockyard. It was only just enough to demand I swish the wipers once a minute, yet I knew the dogs would not approve. I could leave them in the car, I liked them with me though, so they could have damp fur for once. My intention to leave them at home this afternoon had been overruled both by a desire to get on with the investigation and not lose most of an hour on the round trip, but also by the knowledge that I would be out half the night and not with them.
I parked in almost the exact same spot as the previous day. Then, I had fortuitously spotted a gap near the entrance, today, the grey sky and threat of rain had reduced the number of visitors, so the car park had far more spaces available to pick from.
The lady at the ticket stall recognised me from yesterday. She was cooing at the dogs more than paying attention to me though. An experience I was used to.
‘Aren’t they lovely?’ She commented to her colleague. The pair of them had abandoned their station to get a proper look.
The dogs replied by flipping onto their backs for tummy tickles.
‘We don’t get many here two days in a row.’ The first lady said looking up at me.
She was questioning what could have brought me back so soon and had left her observation hanging in the air like a question for me to answer. ‘I am writing a research paper.’ I supplied. It was enough of an answer to quell any further interest.
Once the two ladies had clambered back up with an accompaniment of groans and complaints, I handed over my payment card, bought another day pass and went into the Dockyard.
The wind was picking up. This close to the water it was able to whip along the exposed area of the river, channelled as it was in the valley the river formed. In between the buildings, the air tumbled and spun, the last of the summer’s leaves creating patterns as they danced to show how the wind was moving.
I pulled my coat tight as I set off for the rigging room once more. The dogs would most likely get cold after a while so I revised my plan for looking around to make my visit brief instead. The map I bought yesterday had gone on the wall in my office, held in place by some handy drawing pins. Looking at the photograph of it on my phone now, I had to zoom in to find the key and then out again to locate the building I wanted. Once I had inspected the cobbled streets around the rigging room in the daylight, I was going to locate the museum so I would not have to waste precious time searching for the entrance I had a key for in the dark tonight.
Looking up to orientate myself after squinting at the small screen on my phone, I discovered I was standing beneath a sign post. One of the arrows pointed to the museum.
Tutting at myself, I changed direction. The museum was close by, allowing a circuitous route to the rigging room to include a visit there first.
The original use of the building that now housed the museum might have been anything. It looked like accommodation to me, where perhaps the Petty Officers were barracked when ashore. Long and thin like most of the buildings in the Dockyard, it was two stories high and symmetrical about a central entrance door. Sash windows dominated the front fascia.
A sign mounted above the front door told visitors that this was the museum. Cedric’s key was for a side entrance he had said. No other door was visible on the side of the building I was looking at, but I found one around the next corner.
The bunch of keys he had given me had only two types of key on it. This was a modern Yale lock which gave me two options. As I put the first key in the lock, I said a silent prayer that there would be no one on the other side of the door. With the dogs around my feet, hugging into them to avoid the cool breeze, I slid the key in. It was a fit. I gave a quick experimental turn and satisfied I could get in tonight when no one was here, I left it at that.
I would find out what was on the other side of the door later.
My search around the rigging room was as fruitless in daylight as it had been at night. Wherever the space below the rigging room was accessed from, it was not where I was looking. The wind had not abated, so in acknowledging that I was beginning to feel the coolness in my hands and feet and face, I also acknowledged that it was time to get the dogs back into the warm.
‘Let’s get home, shall we, chaps?’ I asked them needlessly as I started back toward the carpark. They pulled ahead of me, whether sensing they had turned toward home or understood my words, I could not tell.
I pulled them to a stop though as we passed the Admiral’s building. In a parking space designated for the CEO, was a Humvee bearing Ukrainian plates. It had not been there on my previous trips. Alex Jordan drove an Audi A7 or at least that had been the car in this spot on my last visit.
Telling myself that it might just be the car of a visitor to the CEO or perhaps that of another senior employee who, perhaps knowing the CEO was away, had elected to park there. I took a picture anyway.
The dogs were trying to move on, making me worry they were, in fact, cold. I hurried my pace back to the car. Once inside, with the engine running and the heated seat on to warm their paws, I sent a message to Jane with the picture attached to it.
Can you find the owner for this car? It might be important.
Seconds later a reply pinged back.
Give me thirty seconds.
A rap on the window startled me. The car was just beginning to warm, so it was with reluctance that I powered the window down to speak with Alan. Boy George, Fred and Stuart were behind him.
‘Mr. Michaels.’ He acknowledged. ‘I’m glad I caught you. How is the detective work going?’
‘It is going. That’s about all I can claim after twenty-four hours. It would be better if I keep the details of my activities secret though.’
‘Oh, I think you can trust us with secrets, Mr. Michaels. Besides, the two Daves already told us you had infiltrated the night crew of cleaners. Rumour has it you got chased by a ghost last night.’
I stared at them, waiting for the follow up remark.
It was Fred that volunteered, ‘We was a bit surprised, truth be told. We thought you Army boys would be less easy to scare.’
I rolled my eyes. I wanted to reply that we had chased it, not the other way around, but defending myself would be ridiculous.
Boy George stuck his head between his colleagues. ‘Here, are you alright, Mr. Michaels? You look awful cold.’
‘I’m fine thank you.’ I replied with a forced smile.
‘Leave him be, Georgie.’ Chastised Alan. ‘Army boys don’t get
hardened to the cold like we do.’
It was another jibe. Their banter was good-natured, but unwelcome. I was sure they were trying to get a rise from me, poking me to see if I would get annoyed. Showing my irritation would only encourage them to poke more fun and it would embarrass my father if I didn’t give as good as I got.
‘Chaps, it saddens me that you couldn’t make the grade to get into the Army, but please retain some dignity and keep your envy in check.’
Four pairs of eyes widened at my insult. ‘Couldn’t make the grade.’ Echoed Alan.
Fred said, ‘We’re the senior service, lad.’
I eyed the four of them. ‘You most certainly are the seniors service. I would add your ages up, but I don’t have the time to count that high. How many of you have your letter from the Queen already?’
‘Cor. That was a low blow.’ Laughed Alan. ‘Don’t forget we are here to help when the time comes.’ He said, suddenly serious again. Then he pulled his coat, jumper and shirt to one side to reveal a tattoo on his right deltoid. The tattoo looked to be a hundred years old. The piece of wrinkly leather it was inked on no longer retained the tension it once had, and the ink had lost the sharp edges it might once have had.
As I watched, the other three men reached up to tap their shoulder in the same place. I nodded my understanding, and as they stood up and began to move away, I closed my window. It was time to go home. I wanted to get ready for tonight, I needed to eat and settle the dogs and I had some research to do.
Just as I began to pull away, my phone pinged. It was Jane.
The car is registered to a firm called Global Import Services. They operate out of the Ukraine, but I cannot find any trace of a trading history in the UK.
I texted back my thanks. What did that mean? I had Ukrainians involved in whatever was going on here. My gut said it was something criminal though I had no clue what it might be, and the Import Services firm sounded like a front for something else.
Was there a Ukrainian gang operating in the area? The question had swum into my consciousness and deserved an answer.
I knew just the man to ask.
Chief Inspector Quinn. Tuesday, November 22nd 1530hrs
Chief Inspector Quinn and I had a tenuous relationship. I wasn’t sure what had started it, but he didn’t like me and his decision to voice that made me not like him either. That and he had me arrested several times.
I recognised that he was a well-connected, resourceful and knowledgeable police officer though and believed that because we didn’t like each other, he was more likely to listen to me. I might be wrong about that.
I paid for parking in the secure car park next to the police station in Maidstone. I had dropped the dogs off at home as I had to drive by the village to get to Maidstone. They wouldn’t be welcome in the police station and were far happier at home asleep on the sofa.
The desk officer today was a young woman I had seen before. She recognised me and waved a hello. She undoubtedly knew Amanda and thus saw me as a person she knew. Her wave drew the attention of the sergeant sitting behind her. I knew him too. His name was Butterworth and he was a bit of an arse. At least when it came to me, he was.
‘Good afternoon. I wish to speak with Chief Inspector Quinn.’
The young lady in front of me opened her mouth but was silenced by her sergeant speaking over the top of her. ‘Solved another crime have you, Mulder?’
‘Can you let him know, please?’ I asked her, never swaying my eyes from her to acknowledge he had spoken.
Sergeant Butterworth wasn’t done though. ‘You’ll do no such thing, Andrews.’ His gruff manner was beginning to bother me.
Any further attempt to have the young lady fetch Quinn would just cause her grief. I turned my attention to her superior. ‘I have a question for Chief Inspector Quinn. Is there a good reason why you are preventing me from asking it?’
‘A good reason? A good reason like I already know your question will be some ridiculous nonsense about a ghoul or a wizard? Then, yes, I have a good reason.’ He folded his arms across his chest. He was trying to look immovable. ‘Is your enquiry not about a ghoul or a wizard?’ He asked, his tone mocking.
The sergeant hadn’t noticed that while he was staring at me and filling the space at the front of the counter, his subordinate had slipped out the door at the back of the reception while miming that she was off to fetch the person I wanted.
She stepped back through the door behind him, gave me a cheeky wink and set her face to innocent when sergeant Butterworth turned to see what I was looking at.
Before he could annoy me any further, CI Quinn appeared through a different door in the wall to the right of the reception counter.
‘Mr. Michaels. I understand you want to see me. I do hope you are not going to waste my time.’
I offered him a hopeful expression. ‘I need no more than a few moments.’ He indicated back through the door and held it open for me to follow him. ‘Thank you.’ I called out loud enough for the desk officer to hear me.
The Chief Inspector was leading me to an office, but I started asking my question as the door to reception closed. ‘What do you know about Ukrainian gangs operating in the area?’
Rather than answering, he asked, ‘Why do you want to know about Ukrainian gangs?’
Quinn wasn’t going to give me anything without a reason. I gave him the full story. ‘My father works at the Royal Historic Dockyard. He was attacked and injured there recently.’ He nodded and murmured words of sympathy as one automatically does. I gave him a brief chance to do so before continuing. ‘He will be fine, but I am investigating what happened to him and have stumbled across something. I don’t know what yet, but there is something going on at the Dockyard. Something criminal.’
‘What makes you think that?’
I gave him a level stare. ‘Chief Inspector, in the short time you have known me, and bearing in mind that you loathe everything about me and seem determined to catch me out, when have I ever been wrong?’
He didn’t reply for a few seconds. He just held my gaze. ‘When have you ever been wrong.’ He repeated. ‘That’s all you have to go on? I should base the application of my resources on your ego?’
‘Quinn.’ I started, then paused while I decided whether I should keep going, give up and walk out, or go with my gut instinct and punch him in the ear. I sighed. ‘Quinn, yet again I am going to solve a case that you refuse to acknowledge until it is too late for you to be involved. I am not trying to do you a favour. I just want the people behind my father’s injury to be caught. If I am right about the gang thing, I may need your help.’
‘If you are right about the gang thing, you won’t live out the week.’ He assured me. ‘I wish you luck with your endeavours, pointless and foolish though they are. If you find any actual evidence, please let me know.’
‘I already have evidence, Quinn.’
He cocked his head quizzically. ‘Why not lead with that?’
‘I wanted to see if you would persist with your standard game of being an annoying tit.’ I gathered my bag from the floor and began to rise.
‘What evidence do you have?’ He asked to delay my exit.
I leaned across the table to get into his face. ‘One day, Quinn, you will work out that we are on the same side.’ I opened the door to let myself out.
‘The evidence?’
‘Missed your chance, Quinn.’ Having failed to get what I wanted from him, which was some information and perhaps a little assistance, I instead took the upper hand and left him feeling small. All that was left was to magnanimously waltz myself out of the police station, which I would have done a great job of if I hadn’t instantly taken a wrong turning and found myself in the toilets.
‘This way, Mr. Michaels.’ Called Chief Inspector Quinn while crooking a finger at me.
Silently seething, I let him show me the way out. Going down the steps that led back to the carpark, I checked my watch: 1612hrs. It was already dark out an
d it felt like a long day. I yawned. Heading back to the Dockyard later for several hours of detective work while I pretended to clean didn’t exactly appeal, but in addition to my desire to find dad’s attacker, I now needed to show Quinn that he was wrong.
I headed for home.
Tea and a Book. Tuesday, November 22nd 1640hrs
Ninety-nine percent of the preparation for Jagjit’s stag night had been arranged more than a week ago. Since he had given us a scant month between the engagement announcement and the wedding, there had been options we might have pursued that were simply not possible, however, I was content with the program of events in place. This afternoon I had gathered the attendees, less a couple of apologies, to go over final minutia.
It had been agreed that we would meet at the pub in the village since a good portion of us lived here, but I had been forced to change the time of the event to allow for my investigation at the Dockyard. I had to leave at 1930hrs to ensure I would get there on time but moving the meeting forward to 1800hrs had meant that a couple of the chaps working in London were not going to make it until we were about finished.
There was nothing to be done about it and everyone had assured me that they had taken time off tomorrow to accommodate the driving experience I knew Jagjit would love.
I checked my watch: 1640hrs. I had enough time to get myself some food and grab a shower before heading out. The dogs were well walked today, their trip to the Dockyard more than sufficient to exhaust their tiny legs. They would go to Mrs Comerforth next door before I went to the pub and would be quite happy to do so.
I had some pre-prepared meals in my freezer that I made in batches, days or even weeks in advance because it was generally easier to make a big pot. This evening’s meal of meatballs with a stack of veg was reheating in the oven while some wholemeal pasta boiled on the hob. I was sipping a mug of tea at the kitchen breakfast bar and reading through the book I had bought at the Dockyard yesterday morning. It was not a thick book and it had a lot of photographs in it, but the author claimed there were secret chambers beneath the dockyard that were dug after the Dutch invaded in 1667. They were then extended as the dockyard was extended.