by steve higgs
I didn’t see much point in arguing with this guy. He clearly believed he is out there killing vampires which makes me wonder what he is actually killing, which makes me wonder if I am stood toe to toe with a crazy serial killer who offs anyone with slightly long canines. Time to wrap this up.
‘I shall consider myself well advised, Mr Wensdale. I wish you good luck in your quest.’ I attempted to deliver it with sincerity so that he would take the hook and leave me in peace. I could investigate him more fully later.
We stared at each other for a few seconds, which I didn’t like because I had to look up at him, but he slapped me hard on the shoulder and turned away. ‘Well done, Mr Michaels.’ he said over his shoulder. ‘I did not expect you to see reason. Stefan please pay the lady, we must make preparations while our quarry sleeps.’
The shortest of the three with the spiky hair and sunglasses must be Stefan since he reached for his wallet and handed a card to Poison. The grimoire went into a bag and I saw four hundred pounds rung up on the till. Nice one Frank, I thought to myself.
‘Thank you, come again.’ Poison called after them as they filed out the door and down the stairs. ‘Hi, Tempest.’
I turn from watching Vermont leave to see Poison smiling at me still behind the counter. She had on a royal blue crop top that matched her eye makeup and lipstick and a black sports bra thing underneath. Her toned belly was visible above the counter with something black and sparkly adorning her excellent midriff.
‘Good morning, Poison.’ Forcing my attention away from her body I focused on Frank. ‘Rasfell’s Undead Guide, Frank? Do you make these yourself?’
‘That book was first published over three hundred years ago Tempest, it is incredibly rare and obviously no longer in print. I have another copy though if you wish to know what they know.’ Frank said smiling.
‘Another time perhaps, Frank. But tell me, what did they want.’
‘You don’t know Vermont Wensdale do you Tempest?’
‘No, should I?’
‘Tempest, Vermont Wensdale is a legend. His books are on the shelf behind you.’ I look where he is pointing and sure enough there are several books just a few feet from me. I select one at random and turn it so the cover is facing me. The title reads “Supernatural Beasts of Lower Saxony” and there is a picture of Vermont Wensdale holding a sword, cape fluttering in a breeze. ‘I have some signed copies if you are quick. I didn’t mess around when I saw the chance to improve the value of my stock. Signed copies are worth five times as much. I did nearly mess my pants when he just walked in to my shop. Imagine it, Vermont Wensdale, living legend just popped in to my shop. I will be blogging about this. Poison did you get pictures?’
‘Of course, Frank. It was kind of hard not to get the hint that you wanted them. I even got a shot of you and him bent over looking at his latest book.’
‘Great,’ said Frank, beaming ear to ear. ‘get tweeting and Facebooking on all the usual groups please.’ Poison pulled her phone from a back pocket where my groin instantly assured me it must have been deliciously warm from its proximity to her pert, tight, athletic little bum.
Franks attention swung from her to me diverting my attention thankfully from her derriere. ‘What was it you came in for, Tempest? Is it the Vampire case?’
‘Sort of. I guess. I wanted to ask you who Vermont Wensdale is but I seem to have covered that one. I also got an email from Ambrogio Silvano last night. Ever heard of him?’
‘Ambrogio Silvano? Not a name I recognise. What is it in connection with?’
‘He emailed to tell me I had meddled in his business and he was going to end my bloodline. My assumption is that he is another kook that thinks he is a vampire and feels offended by the minor debacle in Aylesford yesterday.’
‘Well if he is a vampire,’ Frank would usually pick up on my dismissal of the possibility that it could be a supernatural creature ‘then the name would be in Rasfell’s Undead Guide. I’ll get my copy, shall I?’ Frank tutted and shook his head while he turned to retreat into the same back room I saw him emerge from earlier. A few seconds later he came back out carrying another copy of the leather bound toom.
He placed the book on the counter and thumbed it open close to the last few pages. ‘Vampires are at the back next to werewolves. You might think that alphabetically obvious but this is the only guide that works that way and that is because most of them are translated directly from whichever language they were originally written in. Anyway, I digress.’ He thumbed a few more pages. ‘Ambrogio Silvano. Here he is. Italian vampire from the 9th century. Thought to have been killed in 1576AD during the great vampire purge set by Pope Pius V. You say you had an email from him?’
‘Yes, I got it last night. He seems quite upset about something I have done but was not specific about what it was. He was however specific about killing me and everyone in my family. I wondered if there could be some connection with the Maidstone vampire-wannabes I met yesterday.’
Frank looked like King Arthur had just offered him a seat at the round table. He had a stunned yet euphoric look on his face as if something wonderful has just happened ‘Are you asking me to join you on a quest?’
‘Well, not exactly’ I began.
‘You need my help to solve a mystery, Tempest. You will not find me wanting.’ He seemed utterly gleeful. ‘I’ll get right on it. Leave it to me to track down the source of the email. Can you forward it to me?’
I pulled my phone and clicked a few buttons. ‘On its way to you now, Frank. Now if you will excuse I am going to leave that with you and get back to work.’ I put my phone away, but before I could move Frank came around the counter and grabbed my arm. I turned back to face him.
‘Tempest, I am worried for you. You continue to deny the existence of the very creature you pursue. A creature that is most probably ancient, immortal and incredibly powerful. Vampires preying so openly are rare so this one is either so powerful that he believes he cannot be stopped or he has gone crazy which makes him an immortal, indestructible death machine. Let me help you if you must pursue him. I can help to protect you, I have weapons, I have knowledge. I’m not saying I can fight a vampire but I can help to keep you safe because you cannot fight one either and I worry that you might just try to do so.’
‘Frank, I am touched. Deeply. But the recent murders have been committed by a person with a fetish. A vampire-wannabe not an actual vampire. I don’t know who he is, or where he is, or why he is doing it, but I plan to find him and hurt him.’
‘Why?’ Frank was stood there waiting for some revelation from me. What was driving me to pursue a criminal that was already being pursued by the police and now by a professional vampire hunter? ‘Frank, I may discuss my motivation one day,’ I paused, smiled and turned to Poison to deliver the killer line, ‘but not with the lights on.’ Okay, I stole the line from my dad, but it was a good one and I managed to deliver it without someone whacking my nuts.
Poison smirked and dipped her head to look at me cheekily through her fringe. Frank tutted and shook his head.
‘You are my font of knowledge, Frank. Let me know what you find on crazy Italian vampire dude.’ I grabbed the door handle behind me, pirouetted flamboyantly and exited the store.
As I went down the stairs a text pinged in my pocket. I checked the screen and saw PC Hotstuff as the sender.
Damning myself for being hesitant, even as I was hesitating, I opened the message.
It read: “Hi, Tempest. Sorry about the kiss, I couldn’t resist it. Your Mum is just like mine - always trying to marry me off or find me a husband.”
That was all she wrote.
Mrs Sweeting Brand. Monday September 27th 1147hrs
I was walking back past the coffee shop towards my office rereading the message and trying to work out what it actually meant when my phone rang. I didn’t recognise the number, so answered with my professional voice. ‘Blue Moon Investigations, Tempest Michaels speaking. How may I help you?’
; ‘Mr Michaels?’ A woman’s voice, middle aged, fifties or early sixties maybe, educated and confident. ‘You investigate unusual events? The paranormal and all that?’
‘That is correct. I specialise in cases that have a supernatural or unexplained element.’
‘Then we need to meet, Mr Michaels. My name is Rita Sweeting-Brand. My daughter is currently in hospital swearing she was attacked by a seven-foot creature that was neither bear, nor man, nor anything else of this earth - the so-called Bluebell Big Foot. Her boyfriend crashed his car when they came across it early this morning. He died at the scene.’ her voice failed to waver at all in breaking that news I noticed. ‘The police are not taking her account seriously. It would seem that the two of them were doing drugs last night and he was still under the influence, whatever you call it this morning.’
I had fumbled for my keys and opened the office door as I listened to Mrs Sweeting-Brand. While scribbling names and brief details I asked, ‘Where are you now, Mrs Sweeting-Brand? How soon can we meet?’
‘I am still at Maidstone hospital A&E as that is where the ambulance took my daughter. Her injuries are minor but,’ she paused ‘perhaps you should come here.’ I noted again how calm and unflustered her voice seemed, but also detected an angry and possibly impatient undertone as if this were all simply unacceptable.
I checked my watch: 1150hrs. Mental calculation ran for a second or so before I answered. ‘I can be with you within the hour, Mrs Sweeting-Brand. I have your number but should be able to find both you and your daughter easily enough. I will meet you in A&E.’
‘Within the hour, Mr Michaels.’ She hung up.
I checked my watch again, more from habit than needing to see what the time was. I packed a few bits, closed the office again and went home to grab a quick lunch and let the dogs out on my way to the hospital.
Those few small tasks took less than forty minutes and the drive to the hospital a further six. Parking at Maidstone Hospital is a pain though so despite the ticking clock I could not predict how long it would take me to find a space. They had expanded the car park a few years ago but finding a space was a fight unless it was particularly early or late. Luck was on my side though as just then I saw reverse lights come on a few cars in front of me and an ageing Austin Allegro began to inch out of a convenient space.
There was an older gentleman at the wheel with a well-dressed but equally aged lady sitting in the passenger seat. She appeared to be chatting amiably while he drove so they had not been in to receive grave news. Allowing myself a few happy thoughts about long married couples I pulled into the now empty space and killed the engine.
I passed an out of order car park ticket payment machine on my way in making a mental note that I would have to look around for another one on my way out. The reception door swished open as I got to it, the automatic sensor working overtime to keep up with the continuous flow of people. I squirted a blob of sanitary wash stuff on my left hand from a dispenser on the wall below a poster of a stern woman in hospital scrubs looking down at me warning of infection. I paused to check the hospital colour coordinated map as I rubbed the alcohol into my hands and set off to the left where I already knew A&E was located.
Entering A&E I checked my watch to make sure I had arrived within the hour, Mrs Sweeting-Brand did not seem the type to tolerate tardiness. Only fifty-three minutes had elapsed so I was safe.
I stopped at the A&E reception desk where a short dumpy lady in her mid-fifties with greying hair and a bored expression was already dealing with someone. However, I could identify Mrs Sweeting-Brand as the lady ten metres away talking a younger version of herself in the bed next to her. She was easy to pick from the crowd as most of the clientele were wearing their very best sweat suits and had neck tattoos regardless of whether they were men, women or children. I was generalising of course, but ruling out the very young and very old adults in the room left a diminished subset of options. Listening earlier to the voice of Mrs Sweeting-Brown it had sounded to me like she wore clothing by Hobbs and coats by Laura Ashley which was exactly what the lady in front of me had on.
‘Mrs Sweeting-Brown?’ I called at a volume she would hear.
The lady I believed to be Mrs Sweeting-Brand turned towards me at the sound of her name and motioned her head ever so slightly to beckon me over.
I extended my hand ‘Mrs Sweeting-Brand, good day to you. This is your daughter?’ I enquired, quite certain that it was. Her daughter looked to be in her mid-twenties and was a very attractive brunette who would have captured my attention under any circumstances. The bed clothes were pulled up to just below her breasts and above them she wore a hospital gown of the backless type as if ready for surgery. She had on no bra and the cool breeze flowing through A&E from the Ambulance/ Paramedic entry doors had made her nipples stand out beneath the cloth. I focused away from them and onto her face which was a mass of bruises and small cuts. Her hair was a mess where it appeared she had cut her head and bled profusely into it.
‘I am Michelle Sweeting-Brand.’ stated the woman in the bed raising her own hand to shake mine. Her voice was even and calm. Whatever excitement had led her here it had passed and she seemed over it for now.
I pulled a card from my pocket and handed it to Mrs Sweeting-Brand. She had shaken my hand but did not consider that I needed to know her first name or even that she should return my salutation. I ignored this, hospitals and loved ones in accidents were stressful, trying times and could make anyone’s manners slip.
‘Mrs Sweeting-Brand. How may I help you?’ I asked simply
‘Mr Michaels my daughter has been injured and claims…’
‘I don’t claim, mother.’ interrupted Michelle ‘It was a seven-foot fucking beast creature. I’m sorry I didn’t stop to take pictures for you while Simon was crashing the car and dying.’
Some sensitivity there.
‘Well, there you have it Mr Michaels.’ Mrs Sweeting-Brand locked eyes with me for a second and walked away clearly expecting me to follow which I duly did. ‘My daughter is a high fashion model and her looks are her career. The injuries to her face are ruinous, she may never work again and she has so little other talent I cannot imagine what else she might do. I do not for one minute believe that what Michelle saw was a genuine creature, it will be some fool dressing up. I want this person found Mr Michaels, found so that I can sue them. Sue them into the ground.’
Mrs Sweeting-Brand was a little scary.
A nurse had come over to calm Michelle who was now sobbing quietly and being ignored by her mother. ‘My daughter is also given to taking drugs, although she thinks I am too blind to see it. Cocaine, that sort of thing. Whatever she saw could be dismissed as a bad trip if it had not been seen by several others so I am prepared to accept that she saw something. Can you focus your attentions to this matter, Mr Michaels?’
I wondered if she was ever anything but direct. ‘I can Mrs Sweeting-Brand and I can start my investigation today.’ She nodded as if acknowledging that this was satisfactory and I thought for a moment she was going to ask why I was not busier.
‘Good. I cannot abide waiting.’ I believed her. ‘How soon will you be able to reveal this miscreant?’ She actually used the word miscreant in a sentence and it sounded normal.
‘I can give you daily reports by email if you wish but I cannot make any predictions about what I will find or how quickly I can resolve this if at all. You understand that at this point I have very little to go on and would be very foolish to guarantee a result.
‘But I expect a result, Mr Michaels. Otherwise why engage you? I will give you three days. If I see no compelling reason to retain you after that I will look for a more qualified investigator.’ Good luck finding one I thought to myself.
Our business seemed concluded so we briefly discussed costs and she assured me she would transfer funds in full for three days by the end of the day. She shook my hand once more and I left, glancing over my shoulder only once to find she had not bothered to ret
urn to her distressed and injured daughter but was at the counter berating the woman there for something.
Frank’s Theories. Monday September 27th 1315hrs
I pulled up at my house to find Frank’s car parked on the road and him sitting in it. It was not the first time he had ever come to my house but it was a rare occurrence nevertheless. From my car, I could see he had spotted my arrival and was now wrestling with something heavy on his passenger seat. As I got out and locked up he was still wrestling so I opened his passenger door and crouched down to see what he was doing.
‘Need a hand, Frank?’
Beaming, smiley face as usual. ‘I think I know what the Bluebell Big Foot is. I brought some reference material over.’
I looked at the pile of books and A4 pages on the passenger seat ‘Shall I take these inside?’
‘I could use a hand.’ he agreed and together we scooped it all up and headed down the path to my place.
‘I thought you were looking for information on vampires Frank. In particular, the one that is threatening to kill me and all my kin.’
‘Ah well that was easy research so I had Poison do it while I busied myself looking into the Bluebell Big Foot. Don’t worry though I have lots on information about Ambrogio and his followers.’
‘He has followers?’
‘Oh yes. He is one of the oldest vampires in Europe, at least of those that are known to still be hunting and therefore he has many children’
‘Wait. Children?’
‘You know, turned vampires.’ Frank explained in a tone that suggested I was being particularly dense.
I juggled the books I was carrying so I could get my keys up to the door and used them to push it open, shooing the dogs with my foot as I went to prevent tripping on them.
‘So,’ Frank continued ‘Ambrogio will have turned many former lovers etcetera into vampires across the many centuries he has lived. Of course, I cannot say exactly how old he is, but I was able to trace him back to 12th Century Rome as I showed you earlier, so let’s call it an even thousand years at least. Each of these children will have turned some more so he has quite a family. Then there are those that want to be turned.’