by steve higgs
I contacted the Yellow Pages and they were jolly expensive, so I went with a local newspaper that advertised local businesses. Best to start out small and keep the overheads down was my thinking. Life likes to laugh at my plans though, so what happened was the paper ran my advert under the title Paranormal Investigation instead of Private Investigation. In a loud and somewhat apoplectic voice, I asked them how this happened the day the paper came out. They explained that the girl writing the ad saw the Blue Moon name I had chosen for my business and wrote paranormal without even noticing she had got it wrong. They apologised and made some placating noises, offered to run my advert correctly for a month for free, that sort of thing. The paper was published and in circulation though, so whether I liked it or not, for the next two weeks I would be a paranormal investigator at the Blue Moon Investigation Agency.
I remember being distinctly irked about the advert and sitting in my office convinced that I could just shut up shop until the advert ran correctly again in two weeks’ time. Well, I was wrong. The morning the advert ran I received my first phone call at 0912hrs and had a further three enquiries the same day. I have enjoyed a steady stream of business clients ever since.
That was six months ago. I kept the business name, kept the advert running and keep wondering if maybe I need to take on additional staff. Mostly, I investigate strange events which turn out to be one too many vodkas but mixed in with the stupid ones are cases that take some effort to solve. Included in this list have been a man that was attacked by a werewolf, which turned out to be a drugged-up, hairy, homeless person with no shirt, a couple that had suffered a series of bad luck incidents and believed they had been cursed by their great Aunt Ida (who is definitely a witch, she has a black cat), but were just plain unlucky and an old lady who was being kept awake by ghostly noises but turned out to have a flatulent dog.
Knowing with utter conviction, like any sane person, that the whole paranormal world is a load of fantastic nonsense, meant that I could ignore exploring the possibility that a werewolf was genuinely running around Chatham or Aunt Ida really was a witch throwing curses at her lesser relatives, and thus find a solution to each case that generally presented itself as obvious once the paranormal had been discounted. The best bit was that people paid me to politely point out how daft they were.
Today was a day like any other day. It was a Thursday, so my internal calendar was programmed for me to be doing some form of work, however on this Thursday, I had no live cases. Despite that, I had risen early, lifted some weights and walked the dogs. I was now sat in a coffee house opposite my office reading the news and relaxing with a cup of tea. The front page of the Times was mostly dedicated to further trouble in Syria with a large picture of the new Princess baby being held for the camera at her first outing. It was nothing that I found noteworthy
I switched to a local paper, the one that ran my business advert actually. On page four, just after a report of a stolen riverboat, I found an interesting headline which declared, “Bluebell Hill Big Foot?” below which was a grainy picture of a blob on a landscape. The first few lines gave the usual overview of the entire story, which was about reports of a large beast that had been seen several times in the last few weeks. Kent has a lot of countryside, but not so much that a Sasquatch could be living in it with no one noticing. The paper was not given to tabloid nonsense though, so I read on. The first sighting had been three weeks ago, on a Sunday afternoon. Mr. and Mrs. McCarthy of Aylesford had been walking their Labrador when they saw a large, hairy bipedal creature walking upright no more than thirty metres away. It disappeared into the treeline before Mrs. McCarthy, fifty-seven, could get her phone out to take a picture. The Labrador gave chase but returned when they called it back. Clearly shaken, they stated that the creature was not a bear, which was their first thought but moved like a man and by judging the apparent height of the beast against the trees they estimated its height at over seven feet. There were no footprints they said because of the recent dry period and hard ground. The creature was muscular around the thighs and shoulders and thick at the waist. They did not report the sighting until a local radio station ran a story a week ago following several other sightings. The radio had brought in local Doctor of Zoology and second person to have made a sighting, Dr. Barry Bryson. Their expert witness had apparently supported the notion that there could indeed be a large bipedal mammal living in Kent but was quoted as having said, "The United Kingdom has over seven hundred thousand hectares of forest, most of it linked to support wildlife migration patterns. That there are creatures we have not yet discovered, living right next to us, is highly likely. Sightings of a creature matching what I saw have been reported several times before in the same area over the last few decades. It is entirely tenable that a large nocturnal bipedal mammal exists and that we have not seen it because it lives underground and only ventures out at night to forage." Was there a Big Foot living in the Kent Weald? Where had it come from? The article went on to recount in less detail the reports of three other persons that had claimed to have seen the Big Foot. Each one reported more or less the same description. Dr. Bryson had gone on to tout a novel that he had written loosely based on the subject. When asked if he felt the creature posed a threat his response was, "Absolutely. It is most probable that this creature is either carnivore or omnivore, it is doubtful that it would see a human as a viable meal but if startled it may attack as a defensive measure."
I looked up as the door chimed. Two young ladies dressed for office work came in chatting. Both were pretty, but a little young for further attention.
I cast my gaze back to the article. Dr. Barry Bryson, Manager at Kent Predator and Prey Park, a failing local wildlife park just outside Maidstone had seen the creature from his car, he claimed. Driving to work early on a Tuesday morning he had suffered a puncture and pulled over onto the hard shoulder of the A229 to deal with it. It was early morning, so traffic was very light, and he spotted the creature moving away from him. He pursued it and found a giant footprint perfectly preserved in thick mud where the Big Foot had disappeared into the wood line. The print measured over eighteen inches in length and showed five toes with no claws. The writer proceeded to discuss what creatures in the natural kingdom could leave such a print, concluding with none other than the North American Big Foot. The footprint was shown in a picture which was better quality than the grainy photograph shown earlier and was considered to be fairly concrete evidence that something was out there.
The story had not attracted the interest of the National press yet. It was the first I had heard of it, which made me feel like I was failing in some way since I am the only paranormal investigator in the book. It was probably a homeless man, or a chap out shooting ducks illegally and wearing a camouflage suit, so I was not going to let it trouble me too much.
Sat there pondering whether I should pop to the gents now or wait until I had walked the fifteen metres to my office, I was interrupted by my phone receiving a text:
Third vampire victim found by the river 200m south of River Angel Pub. Fresh scene, go check it out.
It had been sent by Sharon Maycroft, a former several nights stand and current local newspaper journalist for the very paper I held in my hands. Sharon was one of the few that accepted my profession without the slightest interest, it had no impact on what she wanted me for, which was mostly sex but on occasion, we had managed some conversation. It had been several months since I last saw her, but we moved in the same social circles and had an amicable relationship. She clearly believed I would be interested and was very kindly supplying me with information.
Would the information from Sharon require reciprocation? If so, would that mean a nocturnal activity session? Buoyed by the thought of that, I folded the paper and returned it to the little rack on the wall. I had discovered some time ago that an old school-friend, a chap I met on my very first day in school, in fact, was a PC in the Maidstone police force and had utilised the connection a few times to get vital nugget
s of information. I flicked to his number and pressed the green button to dial his mobile.
Calling Darren Shrivers was displayed on the phone, but it did not connect. When it switched to voicemail I hung up and tried the number I had for his work desk. It rang briefly and was answered by a female voice.
‘PC Callwell,’ was all I got.
‘This is Tempest Michaels calling for PC Shrivers.’
‘May I ask what it is pertaining to?’
‘I’m an old school-friend, I am just calling to arrange meeting for a few beers,’ I lied rather than compromise him in any way, ‘Please don’t drag him away from anything he might be doing, I can catch him later. Or could I leave a message for him?’ I suspected she would not disturb him if he was busy anyway.
‘I’m afraid he is away on a course and won’t be back for several weeks.’
Well, that ended that line of enquiry. Even if I could get him via his mobile later, he would have no idea what was going on with cases back at the station.
‘Oh,’ I said simply, ‘Well, thank you anyway. I’ll catch up with him later,’ I added just to wrap up the conversation.
I popped the phone in my bag, slung the bag over my shoulder and stepped out into the street.
It was cool out, one of those early autumn days that people call fresh rather than cold. It would be cold if you stayed out in it but, of course, most don’t, they merely travel through the cool air on a brief transition between house and car, car and office. There was no need to button my coat though as it was only a handful of strides from the coffee shop to my office door.
I bounded up the stairs to my office, unlocked the door and left it open while I pulled together the gear I would need. While I had not been engaged by anyone to investigate The Vampire murders (might as well call it that since everyone else was) I had nothing better to do and perhaps solving this would get me a truckload of publicity.
When I set the business up, I had invested in decent cameras, recording equipment, hidden microphones and professional looking stationery and notebooks that I could take to client meetings and wherever else my work took me. Since then I had bought ancient looking texts and grimoires to complete the image of the serious paranormal investigator and carried ridiculous extras such as salt, stakes, and silver. So far, I had seen a lot of weird stuff but nothing that could convince me that the supernatural existed.
I carry a shoulder bag with me just about everywhere I go. I started doing so not long after I left the army and no longer had a backpack for daily use. I have phones, business cards, notebooks, cameras and recording equipment in it generally and trivia like a pack of tissues because you never know when a lady might need one and a condom because the lady might be impressed by the tissue. I'm a man, okay? It's how we think.
Bag packed, I locked the office and jogged down the stairs, out the front and around the back to the car park where my car was waiting for me. I love my car. My twin sister says I am compensating, but I think that is a load of clichéd nonsense. If I swapped it for a 1970s battered Austin Allegro in shiny, turd-brown, it would not suddenly transform Mr. Wriggly into Penisaurus Rex, so having a car that I enjoy driving does not mean I am hung like a baby carrot. It was a beautiful red, 2009 Porsche Boxster S with a full Porsche body kit and fat nineteen-inch Porsche cup alloys.
I plipped it open and got in, swinging my bag of goodies onto the passenger seat. The journey was perhaps five miles or so and would take anything between twenty and forty minutes depending on traffic. I used to run a lot of the route I was about to take whenever I was spending time at my parent's house in Rochester, so I knew the roads could often be jogged faster than driven. Nevertheless, driving was the right option and I got there in twenty-four minutes.
I parked at the River Angel pub that Sharon had said was near the scene. The pub was an attractive two-story building set on the riverfront. I had no idea how old it was although it had old oak beams set into the walls and a several centuries old look to it. It was shut, no lights on but at 0937hrs this was no surprise. I wondered if anyone lived there. It looked like a nice place to live so perhaps the landlord and his family were in residence.
I walked around the side passing the wooden trestle tables laid out for al fresco dining and spotted a police officer on the river path. From where I stood, the river looked lovely. The setting was beautiful and must draw scores of people all year round, making it a great site for a pub. Mooring points allowed boats to pull up right outside and they were fitted along the riverbank as far as I could see in either direction.
Beyond the police officer were the familiar white tents they erect to preserve a scene and prevent gawking passers-by from having anything good to look at. There were several persons moving about in full-body forensic suits and several more police officers in uniform along with one or two others in suits and coats that were probably also police. All were near to the tents and not visibly doing much. The established perimeter was set at a distance that meant conversation at the site could not be heard and the detail of what people were doing was impossible to make out.
The tents were tucked in under a few straggly trees just off the path that follows the river. It was cooler here than elsewhere, the local temperature kept low by the river. I approached the uniformed police officer blocking access to the site.
‘Good morning. I understand there has been another murder. I am a private investigator looking into the deaths for a third party.' Okay, so I was the third party, but the lie was far better than saying, ‘Hi I investigate weird stuff like vampires and werewolves for a living.’ I have found doing so never gets me very far.
I didn't really expect help or an invite to see the victim for myself. However, much to my surprise the Officer said, ‘I know who you are, sir.' I noted his number in my notebook just in case I needed to refer to whom I had spoken with. ‘I saw you in the local papers after that Werewolf thing,' he was grinning now, ‘Watch too many episodes of X-Files by any chance?' clearly entertaining himself.
It occurred to me that I could simply be an equal arse to him and leave him feeling small and pathetic, but that would not get me any information. I grinned back in what I hoped was a congenial way, ‘Too much Buffy the Vampire Slayer actually, but what I proved in the incident to which you refer was that the supernatural does not exist. I get paid to prove it does not exist by people that fervently believe that it does,' this was mostly true, ‘The very fact that this is being called a vampire slaying means a payday for me, so I am hoping you can help me out with a few very basic facts.'
At this point over his left shoulder, I spotted a second uniformed officer heading over towards us. Very different in appearance to the chap I was currently conversing with though - this one was gorgeous. I have never been impressed by ladies that dress for a night out like they are auditioning for the Pussycat Dolls, nor am I inspired by flawless makeup, so the fact that the lady walking towards me now in copper’s boots, a heavy, unflattering uniform and bereft of makeup and hair-styling could grab my attention so instantly meant she must be a knock out in her usual clothes. Get a grip, Tempest, I chastised myself. There are plenty of attractive ladies around, no need to start dribbling. Opting to look focused and professional I hoisted the camera out of my shoulder bag and took a few shots of the area in general.
‘My turn again. There are bacon sandwiches if you are quick,' the new officer informed her colleague on arrival.
He turned to go but looked back and offered, ‘Good luck with the investigation, Mulder,' as he went. I had considered that he might just be bored and thus the initial thrust and parry of our few shared words were merely to brighten his day, but no, I concluded, he is in fact, just a dick.
‘What did he mean?’ asked the vision in uniform. Her face betrayed boredom and little else.
‘I’m the guy in the papers investigating supernatural events. Not that I expect you to have heard of me, but he clearly had.’
‘That thing with the werewolf?’
‘Yup. That was me. I'm Tempest Michaels. I think this attack is linked to the previous two, which is no great leap given the proximity of the crimes to each other. Solving it will assist my business.' I was looking beyond her rather than at her but focused now on meeting her eyes. Wow! They were fantastic. I realised I had stopped speaking and was just staring at her. ‘What can you tell me about the circumstances?'
‘Nothing, sir. Official statements will be issued once the details of the crime have been verified and the victim has been identified.’ It was the answer I expected although it never hurts to ask.
‘I'd like to give you my card,' I said while fishing in my bag, ‘I would be very interested in following up on this with you when you are off duty.'
‘To what purpose?' she asked. Okay, brain, get it right and you have a shot, get it wrong and the lovely lady will identify that you are a complete knob and that will be that. How can I get across that I am a cool guy just looking to solve a crime and be professional but that I am also available and interested? I opened my mouth to express that I find senior police officers have no time for me and that her colleague was clearly not interested in helping and thus I hoped that she could provide some perspective so that, through spit-balling our ideas together we might both do well. But before I got the first word out, a voice came from behind me.
‘Wotcha, Dangerman. I knew you would get here before me. Still convinced that there are no vampires?’
‘Nuts,’ I muttered to myself
‘Chatting up another fine woman I see. I don’t know how you keep up with them all.’
Perfect.
The voice, I knew without turning belonged to Frank Decaux. Frank was the owner of an occult bookshop and believed with a foaming-at-the-mouth fervour that everything supernatural existed. He stood about five feet five inches tall, had a forgettable face, a scrawny body and light brown hair which was not complemented by a sallow complexion. The overall effect was as if a witch had transformed a weasel into a man and not done a very good job. Frank arrived at my office about ten minutes after the advert for paranormal investigations went out and I had not been able to shake him since. Largely this was because he was determined to be there when I came up against something that proved to be genuinely supernatural and partly because he turned up anywhere that might have a supernatural link. Such as the site I was now stood at. I think he is harmless and generally well-meaning and I have called upon him on occasion for expert advice. He can be an annoying tit though.