Blue Moon Investigations series Boxed Set 1

by steve higgs

  Now at the Mill again, I parked closer to the reception entrance than I had the day before. The sky was overcast, robbing us of our shadows and it threatened to rain.

  The same two ladies were on reception. They had us sign in as guests and wait for someone to come down from the main office to collect us. The clock on the wall in reception claimed it was 1247hrs. It was a few minutes late, my watch assured me it was more accurately 1253hrs. Since we were expected at 1300hrs sharp, I expected Mr. Barker to be running on time and I was not disappointed. An attractive young lady in a short-skirted business suit came to collect us at 1255hrs (according to my watch, not the clock on the wall).

  She did not bother to introduce herself, she simply said, ‘Mr. Barker is expecting you now.' She checked to see that we were getting up to follow her and led the way back to the office where I had been yesterday. As we crossed the yard outside, sticking strictly to the yellow safety path, the first few spots of rain began to fall. They changed the tarmac from dark grey to a glistening black in tiny circles as each one landed. Soon enough they would begin to join up.

  The door to Brett Barker’s office was closed, the young lady knocked, paused and opened it. The door swung wide as she stepped inside and out of the way to reveal directly in front of us the new owner of Barker Mill. He was already standing up and coming around the desk to greet us. I gave him some points for this as I had wondered if he would remain behind it.

  He crossed the room, buttoning his jacket as he came, but he had not actually looked at us until right then. His face, which was ridiculously handsome, froze momentarily as he saw Amanda. I suppose he was expecting just a chap and had he checked out the Blue Moon investigation Agency website he would have found just me listed. So, here I was accompanied by the strikingly delicious blonde and it had caught him briefly off guard.

  He recovered quickly though, a warm smile spreading across his face.

  ‘Good afternoon.’ he said, his educated accent everything I had expected it to be. Not that it offended me in any way, I found it pleasing to listen to people enunciate their words correctly. ‘Tempest Michaels, of course.’ he said, shaking my hand with a firm, manly grip. ‘And this is?’

  ‘Amanda Harper.' Amanda said, offering her hand to be shaken.

  We had all met in the centre of the room in front of the large desk that dominated it. The young lady that had led us up here had quietly closed the door behind us and slipped out. Brett Barker had Amanda’s hand in both of his and was staring into her eyes. He was still smiling his best smile and kept glancing to me and then back to stare at Amanda. He appeared to catch himself in the act before it became odd and let her hand go.

  ‘Please take a seat.’ he said looking directly at Amanda. ‘Each of you.’ he concluded, remembering me.

  We were both sitting in large oak chairs that were positioned to face the desk obliquely from the right while Brett went back around the desk to his chair. He picked up a red stress ball as he went.

  ‘So, I believe my late Grandfather’s wife has employed you to investigate whether he was killed by the Phantom or indeed died of natural causes like the coroner says.’

  Amanda stayed quiet, so I could field the question and when I spoke, he finally turned his gaze towards me. ‘Do you believe your Grandfather died of natural causes?' I wanted to see how he reacted to a direct question about the death. It was entirely possible that he was guilty but equally likely that he was not. Would he give us some indication?

  ‘Of course, I do.' he snapped. ‘The old fool had a terrible heart, was way past retirement age, worked too many hours, and refused to let me take over the operation so that he could have an easier life.'

  ‘Why?’ I asked getting the quizzical face I wanted as Brett waited for me to expand my question. ‘Why did he refuse to hand over power to you?’ This was a harsh question which I hoped would expose some raw emotion and frustration.

  I poised my pen, ready to write while he glanced between Amanda and me looking a little uncomfortable. Was he trying to decide how to answer? Probably.

  ‘Mr. Michaels, I am not sure what Margaret might have told you, but I am under no obligation to answer any of your questions. I agreed to this meeting largely to indulge my curiosity. She has not spoken the words directly to me; however, it is my assumption that she believes I am the one that has somehow convinced him to die of natural causes.'

  Amanda and I stayed quiet. He was talking. Despite saying that he did not feel he needed to answer our questions he suddenly felt like sharing and the longer he talked the more he would tell us.

  ‘Let me state for the record that I did not kill my Grandfather.’

  ‘Where were you on the night that he died?’ I asked.

  ‘I refer you back to my previous statement about having no obligation to answer any questions.’

  ‘No alibi.’ I said aloud as I wrote on my pad.

  ‘Why would I need an alibi?’ he chuckled, his brow wrinkling in a display designed to indicate the concept was preposterous.

  ‘What is your relationship with Margaret like?’

  Brett drummed his fingers on the desk a few times while he stared out of the window. ‘Alright. I'll tell you what, Mr. Michaels. I will indulge you a few questions. It feels a bit like therapy. Margaret and I have never really got on. She is poorly qualified to be the financial director of any firm, let alone a multi-million-pound operation such as this. She gained her position through marriage and I have been vocal about her inappropriate employment for years. We live in the same house, yet rarely see each other and we manage to remain professionally civil.'

  ‘Will she maintain her position now?’ I asked.

  ‘Do you mean, will I force her out now that I am in charge? No. I would not stoop so low. Besides she retains a small portion of shares in the business that were gifted to her years ago by my grandfather. Unless she opts to sell them or gets locked up I am stuck with her.'

  ‘What was that about being locked up?’ Amanda asked.

  ‘An old clause in the Barker Mill share ownership contract. The shares pass from heir to heir. Only ten percent can ever be sold, given or traded to anyone else and it must be someone from the Barker family that receives them. The only way for the heir to lose control of the shares, and thus the Mill itself, is to commit a crime and be incarcerated. The clause was written in at the behest of my great-great-grandfather when his son, my great-grandfather was found guilty of embezzling to support a gambling habit.'

  ‘You gave Owen Larkin a large payout after he was dismissed. Why is that?' Amanda asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Owen is innocent.’

  ‘You seem very sure.’

  ‘Sure enough.' he replied, fixing her with a smile.

  ‘Why is that?’ I asked.

  Brett sighed and looked away from her again. ‘Owen and I have been working together for years now. I trust no one more than him. He is as invested in the future of the Mill as I am.’

  ‘So, how do you explain the components found in his car?’ I checked back through my note. ‘Crane safety lockouts. They sound like a vital piece of safety equipment.’

  He switched his gaze from Amanda to me. ‘I don’t explain it. I have not the slightest idea who put those in Owen’s car and nor does Owen.’

  I changed tack again. ‘The Mill has suffered a spate of bad luck accidents which some are claiming to be the work of the Phantom. Then your grandfather dies and a burnt handprint, the calling card of the Phantom, is found near his body. What do you think is going on?’

  He considered this for a second looking directly at me. ‘Are you asking me if I think there is a phantom haunting my Mill? I don’t. I do however think that someone is deliberately breaking equipment. I have had to enforce a total system check before every piece of equipment is turned on. Productivity is down by almost forty percent.’

  ‘If someone is doing this, do you have a theory why?’

  ‘Not until I work out who. It could be a disgr
untled employee, someone overlooked for promotion. If I overlook the burnt handprint it could all be a coincidence.' He seemed ruffled suddenly. Angry.

  I nodded to Amanda to continue the questioning.

  She checked her notes then looked up. ‘It has been claimed that your grandfather was considering someone else to succeed him as heir to the Mill. Why would he do that?’

  ‘My Grandfather and I did not agree on certain principles regarding how the Mill should be run, where its future lies and what we need to be doing to ensure the future prosperity of the Barker family.’ It felt like a rehearsed answer, but he had taken his time to deliver it as if he needed to think about what to say. Was the pause rehearsed also?

  ‘Are you not concerned that this makes you a suspect?’ I asked. Then I saw the trap coming.

  ‘A suspect in a natural death. Are you a fool man?' Brett was clever enough to have led me into the question and like a fool, I had swum after the bait. He turned his gaze firmly towards Amanda. ‘Do you have any more questions for me?’ he asked, smiling. He had essentially dismissed me.

  Amanda and I conferred briefly but decided we did not have anything more at that time. We got up to leave but Brett then asked a question that surprised me.

  ‘What are your rates?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Your rates, Mr. Michaels. If I wished to engage your services to find the Phantom.' He was serious.

  I was already stood, so while I was putting my notebook away, I outlined what I charge but added on a healthy twenty percent just because I felt like it.

  He nodded his understanding but left it at that.

  A few minutes later Amanda and I were heading back to the car and out of the Mill.

  Research at Home. Friday, 8th October 1443hrs

  I dropped Amanda back at her car and she took herself home. She had a shift this evening and was going to get a few hours of sleep first. I waved her goodbye and headed into my house. I did the usual routine with the dogs and made myself a cup of tea.

  I had not yet read much of the phone-book-thick file I had been given on Brett Barker. My feeble attempt at scrutinising the documents last night had achieved very little before the sweet comfort of sleep had wound its soothing grip around me and pulled me down.

  Now that I had met the man and instantly learned to thoroughly dislike him, I felt a renewed energy and vigour with which to attack the file.

  I was sitting on the sofa with a pile of documents on my left side. I had a notepad and pen on my right. Planning to be thorough, I would work my way through the pile, transferring the read documents to the right where they would form a new, inverted pile to keep them in their original order. In the notepad, I would make inscriptions regarding anything I found noteworthy or anything I did not understand or wanted to research.

  I picked up the first file from the top of the pile. It was a series of school reports from Eton. Quite what I might glean from his school days I could not fathom, but I opened it and started to read. I did not get more than a few words in though before I felt the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. I turned my head to the left where I found Bull standing with his front paws on top of the pile of documents. He did not bother to wag his tail and his expression, if one cared to translate it said, ‘I know that you know where the biscuits are, but I know where your shoes are so perhaps you should find the biscuits and I will not have to find your shoes.'

  I glanced to my right. Dozer was stood on my notebook. A classic pincer movement. He tilted his head slightly to the side as I looked at him. His expression said, ‘Noms?’ He was less articulate than his brother.

  A minute later, I was settling back into my seat and picking up the Eton school report once more. The dogs had devoured their biscuits and already taken themselves to bed.

  For the next three hours, except for bathroom breaks, tea making time and the obligatory letting the dogs in the garden to chase birds, I studied the boring pile of documents. I had made just over two A4 pages of notes. Little things had stood out and were possibly of some significance, but if I had hoped for a piece of evidence that would get him convicted, then I was to be disappointed. He had been expelled from Eton, caught in possession of marijuana before he completed his A levels but had finished his pre-university education at Harrow. There was clearly plenty of money to be spent on the heir. He had then been arrested bringing a small amount of marijuana into the country from Amsterdam in his early twenties but had gained a double first from Oxford and had a guaranteed future at his family's firm, so he probably felt he could break a few rules and get away with it.

  I had gone through ten years of company credit card statements, personal credit card statements and other information contained in the pack. There were some large sums that seemed anomalous. I had looked one up and It turned out to be a membership to a porn site. Vanilla porn though, nothing weird. Another, quite recent transaction had been a large and very exact sum to a pharmaceutical firm. I had made a note to investigate what they did so I could determine if it was of any significance.

  The research dutifully done, I stretched in place on the sofa and checked my watch: 1748hrs. Surprisingly the dogs had slept through their dinner time which was rigidly set at 1700hrs. It only shifted from this appointed hour if I was late getting home or was going to be out and might feed them slightly early.

  I was also in need of sustenance. I usually had a hearty meal on Friday as I was going to the pub and wanted something to slow down the alcohol absorption. I was not sure if it worked like that. Nevertheless, going to the pub on an empty stomach always resulted in reaching my limit sooner than intended so I maintained the practice.

  Friday night at the pub was a habit I had fallen into rather than chosen. I lived in a quiet country village and very much liked that it had a pub. In the summer, people would sit in the garden outside enjoying their drinks in the sun. Patrons would come not only from the village but also from the surrounding villages. Nearby there was a historic Abbey which attracted tourists and it was not uncommon to find small parties electing to take refreshment at the pub before moving on. It was called The Dirty Habit after all. In the winter, when it was cold enough, the Pub Landlord would light an open fire. The flickering firelight and the sound and smell it gave off sparked romantic notions in my head.

  One glorious evening, not long after I had moved to the village, it had snowed. Snow, a worthwhile amount of it anyway, was rare in the South East of England. However, that evening it had fallen to form a blanket about four inches deep transforming the look, feel and the sound of the village. I had wandered happily around to the pub, carrying the dogs instead of letting them walk, as their undercarriage was dragging in the snow. I had fallen in love with the place right there and then.

  It had been my first visit to the pub and I had met two chaps that night - Basic and Brian Clinton and right there the Friday night pub crew had been created. Now it was Friday night again and I was looking forward to the routine of it.

  At the Pub. Friday, 8th October 1926hrs

  Dinner had been chicken and black bean enchiladas with a side of steamed brown rice and fresh avocado. The dogs devoured a can of chicken flavour pedigree chum. Now that all three of us were suitably replete we were winding our way through the streets to the pub. All thoughts of work, Brett Barker, the Phantom or anything to do with that or any other case had been banished from my mind. I was focused on getting my lips to a cold, clear glass of lager. A thought occurred to me then, which was that I needed to talk to my sister before I did anything about her baby shower. I pulled out my phone and with one hand still holding the dog leads, I managed to send her a short text message asking if she could meet me this weekend to discuss it.

  Her answer came back almost immediately, confirming that she would come to my house the following afternoon at three o'clock unless she heard from me that I was unavailable.

  I text back that it worked fine for me and put my phone away. The pub was in sight.

&n
bsp; I was hoping to see Natasha the barmaid tonight. A little over a week ago we had enjoyed lunch together and she had kissed me. It was not planned. The lunch that is, not the kiss. I had bumped into her near my office in Rochester where I had been on my way to get some lunch for myself. I had invited her along. Anyway, Natasha was the Friday night barmaid at the pub, she was absolutely gorgeous, educated, well-spoken and ticked every box I could come up with if a chap was allowed to walk around with a checklist for prospective mates. I had been fantasising about her for months and suddenly I was in with a serious chance. Then, after she had given me her number, I couldn't find it and last Friday she had not been at the pub. Now, more than a week had gone past since she had pressed her lips to mine and told me the ball was in my court. I felt an overwhelming urge to speak with her. I had already implored the Landlord to give me her mobile number, but the look I got from him told me I was not the first that had asked for it.

  Bull and Dozer quickened their pace as we neared the pub and pulled me over the threshold into the welcoming, alcohol-scented walls of The Dirty Habit.

  Of Natasha, there was no sign. Behind the bar, the Landlord was pulling a jar of ale for one of the regulars whose name I could not remember. To my right, Basic, Hilary and, Jagjit were already sitting at our usual table.

  ‘Wotcha, Tempest.’ Jagjit said in greeting. Similar salutations came from the others.

  ‘Any sign of Ben?’ I enquired.

  ‘No. Late as usual. Probably trying to wash off the stench of sex again.’ said Hilary.

  I nodded agreement. ‘My round.’ I announced and headed to the bar. Before I got there, Big Ben came through the door behind me.

  ‘Sorry I’m late, chaps. I passed a mirror and got stuck for a bit admiring myself. You know how it is. Oh, no you probably don’t, do you?’

  ‘Sit down, dickface.’ Jagjit said laughing. Big Ben cracked a smile and took a seat.

  I went to the bar. The chaps at the table behind me were a mix of characters. I met Jagjit Singh when I was four years old on the day I started school. We had hit it off and had played together at the weekends as kids do. When I left the Army and bought my own house it was serendipity that caused me to buy one just around the corner from the house his parents had moved to a few years before. Jagjit worked in real estate sales of some kind in the city. Hilary, whose real name was Brian Clinton also worked in sales but was the manager of a telemarketing firm nearby. He was kind of skinny and scrawny – the type of shape that my mother would say needed to eat a meat pie. He was the only married one of the group and the only one with kids unless Big Ben had a few out there. It was entirely possible that he did as Big Ben was a force of nature placed on the earth by God to shag women. That was what he claimed anyway. Big Ben stood six feet and seven inches tall. He was all lean, hard muscle and he was unfairly good-looking. He also had money. Not millions, but enough that he didn't bother to work and thus could invest time and effort in his main hobby of… you guessed it – shagging women. To Big Ben's right, was Basic. His actual name was James Burnham but at some point in the past someone had given him a nickname and it had stuck. Now even he introduced himself as Basic. The nickname fitted him because he was thick. Proper thick. Like I.Q. somewhere in the high forties thick. He was also built like a bear, but he would not hurt a fly and was at the pub with us every Friday night. He had come along on capers with me a couple of times when I needed some extra muscle.