Blue Moon Investigations series Boxed Set 1

by steve higgs

  ‘Thanks, Patience. I am not really an Ann Summers girl.’

  ‘You’ve got a new dick to impress now girl, so maybe you ought to rethink your attitude. I am an expert in Ann Summers. Let’s go get some new panties, or do you think your new dick is into things that are a little naughtier?

  I would tell myself that I am not a prude but the idea of something a little naughtier terrified me.

  ‘Thank you, Patience, but I don’t think Brett and I are there yet. Maybe another time when we have been on more than one date.’ I needed to get Patience off this subject.

  ‘The element of surprise, girl. He thinks you’re a sweet little lady – then Bam! You whip off your dress and show him your crotchless panties and nipple tassels. Always works for me. Men love that stuff.’

  Now I really had to stop the conversation. The mental image projecting itself uninvited in my brain was not something I could handle. ‘I really need to get to the maintenance guys,' I replied, ignoring her demands to go into the store. I was trying to get her moving in the hope she would give up on the idea of dressing me like I was auditioning for an adult movie.

  ‘You’re all Miss Business today. Let’s go see your men. Then we can shop.’

  ‘Would you rather stay here? I shouldn’t be too long. You can get chicken and do some shopping.’ I was beginning to regret bringing Patience along. I wanted to solve the case, not buy underwear. Patience looked like she was weighing up her decision, but she elected to tag along with me despite the pull of hot fried chicken.

  I found the intercom, got buzzed through and was met inside by a security guy who explained that he would escort us to the maintenance guys. The security chap was called Karl. He introduced himself over his shoulder as he walked ahead of us through the same maze of narrow corridors I had been in yesterday. He was fifty pounds overweight, huffing and puffing from the effort of walking. Quite what his role might be I did not want to ask but since all a thief would have to do to evade him was walk quickly, he was probably the man they had watching the cameras. Watching them with one hand in a bag of crisps probably.

  A minute later and perhaps a dozen or more turns through the maze, Patience and I were both thoroughly lost again but we arrived at a door which had maintenance room written on the outside. It was not locked, and inside were two men in their early fifties, both sitting on polyethylene chairs, one blue, one orange arranged either side of a small, dirty, round, Formica-topped table. They had half-finished mugs of tea on the table and were playing cards. The mugs were dirty, the cards were dirty and the men themselves did not look exactly clean. The walls were adorned with posters and pictures of naked girls. Calendars, pages from girly magazines and the odd faded page three pin-up covered most of the available wall space. I had been in places like this before and it no longer bothered me, their leering stares were not winning them any points though.

  I knew their names to be Charles Spencer and Jack Benson as Martin had provided me a brief background on the two men by email yesterday. Security guard Karl left us with them and closed the door on his way out.

  ‘Damn, it smells like arse in here?’ Patience said. She was right, but I had elected to ignore the fact that someone had recently farted rather than lead with it.

  Reassuring myself that I had tissues in my pocket to clean my skin, I crossed the room with my hand extended, ‘Amanda Harper,' I said as I shook their hands in turn. ‘This is my colleague Patience Woods. So, which of you is Jack?'

  ‘I’m Jack,’ said Jack helpfully.

  ‘Then that makes you, Charles,’ I said to the other chap by way of confirmation. He nodded but did not speak.

  Jack was the spokesperson for the pair, ‘Mr. Miller told us to expect you. You’re here to catch the ghost then?'

  ‘Damn right,’ said Patience from behind me.

  ‘I am here to investigate the unusual activity, yes,' I replied, ‘Mr. Miller said that you have inspected the lifts. What can you tell me about them please?'

  Jack picked up his dirty mug and drained the last of the liquid inside it. Setting it aside, he pushed his chair back slightly and turned to face me. There was nowhere for Patience and me to sit, but I was glad of that as everywhere was filthy. He scratched his stubble, working out what to say. Then he launched into a long rambling statement about how the lifts had been fitted as part of the original installation back in the mid-seventies. He and Charlie had both landed jobs at that time, having both recently finished apprenticeships. They had been taken on cheap because they were young, and he had a good moan about how their wages had barely gone up since. The lifts had been refitted twice, once in the very early nineties and again earlier this year. They had done most of the refitting work themselves, shutting down one lift bank at a time. I asked what the refit involved, and he explained that the most recent refit had been a complete overhaul that involved replacing the cables, gearing, and controls – they had not done that work, instead it had been contracted out, and the lift interiors, doors, and lighting had all been replaced with new items – this is what they had done. The work had taken six months so far and had earned them some overtime hours as much of it was conducted when the shopping centre was closed. They had six lifts banks completed and two still to go. He explained which ones were yet to be tackled. I matched that to the map in my head – they were two of the lifts that had not reported any ghost attacks yet. Two of the six they had refitted also had no reports of attack though, so the correlation was unreliable.

  ‘Can you show me the difference please?’ I asked. I wanted to see everything as I could not yet tell what would be significant and what would not.

  Just then Charles shifted in his seat and farted. Loudly. He looked utterly unashamed at his flatulence, but with Patience and I staring at him he did have the common sense to apologise.

  ‘Sorry. I have a bit of gas.’

  ‘You always have a bit of gas,’ grumped Jack.

  ‘Man, what you have is a lack of manners,’ Patience said heading for the door, ‘I will be outside,’ I had to agree and found myself backing away also. It stank like garlic sausage.

  ‘The lifts please, Jack,' I said on my way to the door, ‘I need to see the insides and I need to see the lift shafts and the machinery that works them.' I was using my cop voice now. The one that insisted on compliance.

  Jack was getting up as I was going out the door, thankful to be able to breathe slightly cleaner air. As the door started to swing shut, I heard another, even louder fart coming from inside the room and a chuckle from Charles.

  Why is it men never seem to grow out of finding farts funny?

  We did not have to go very far to get a look at the gubbins that made the lifts work. Just around the corner was a lift bank which, of course, we had approached from the rear.

  ‘Which lift back is this?’ I asked.

  ‘Green. The ones near the toilets at the south exit. I knew which ones he meant. They only went between the first and second floor and had not yet recorded an incident. There was not a whole load to look at. The shaft itself was completely bricked in. A locked door, for which Charles produced a key, then led inside the base of the shaft. I peered inside. The two lifts were both moving above us, but I was in no danger as the area in which it would descend was inaccessible behind a steel barrier.

  I asked a few questions about the machinery, what sort of problems they had to fix, but I did not really have a line of enquiry to follow. I decided that I did not need to see the hidden workings of the other lifts at this time, if ever, so my next move was going to be to see the lifts as the customers did. Something odd was happening but I still had no idea what was causing it or how it was that shopping had gone missing.

  I had one last question for Jack and Charles though, ‘Mr. Miller told me that you inspected the lifts after the incidents. What did you find?'

  ‘Nothing,’ said Charles immediately, ‘The lifts were operating perfectly within tolerance.’

  ‘No electrical faults. Nothing t
o explain why they would have stopped working or have the lights go out,’ chipped in Jack.

  ‘I reckon they have been making it up,’ said Charles, ‘The first person lost their shopping and made up a story. Then it caught on.’

  I thanked them for their time and asked Jack to escort us back to the shops. The two men were convincing in their belief that there was nothing wrong with the lifts. It had been one theory, actually my only theory so far, that the lifts were just suffering from breakdowns and the rest of the ghost story was just embellishment followed by others repeating the tale and pretending they had been involved. It seemed less likely now that there were so many cases involving so many different and unrelated people.

  Back out in the shops, the air was sweeter, but I felt a need to visit the ladies just so that I could clean my hands properly and freshen up. Patience agreed.

  A few minutes later and feeling far cleaner, Patience was on the hunt for chicken again. ‘Girl, my tummy is empty. I need chicken now.' she had claimed as we exited the facilities.

  There were no food places inside the Pentagon. It seemed odd now that I thought about it, especially compared with modern malls that all have a food court crammed with eating options, but Southern Fried Chicken was just outside the Pentagon on the upper north side.

  ‘I'm gonna get me a whole bucket.' Patience said more to herself than to me. It was like she was doing a little chicken song on her way to overcome her impatience. I sat in a booth when we arrived and had her get me a diet coke. While she was queuing at the counter, I took out my phone and sent a text to Brett. I had forgotten to give him my address. Okay, that is not strictly true. I had tussled with whether to give him the address for my crappy flat near the station or to pretend I lived on the other side of the river in the nice apartments. In the end, I accepted that I would not get away with it for very long and would struggle to explain later why I had felt the need for my subterfuge. I doubted he cared at all about where I lived. He had enough money for both of us, or in fact, for most of the population of Maidstone, plus he knew what I did for a living, so he knew roughly what I earned.

  Once I sent the text, I gave Tempest a quick call.

  ‘Hi, Amanda,’ he answered, ‘How are you today?’ He was always so polite and engaging.

  ‘Fine, thank you, Tempest. I am in Chatham looking into the ghost at the Pentagon.’

  ‘Oh. How is that going?’

  ‘Nothing to report yet. I am just eliminating leads and getting a feel for what might be going on.’ I really wanted to solve this for myself. Not for the sake of my own ego, or so that I could prove to Tempest that he was right to hire me, but for myself. I needed to prove to myself that I could do this.

  ‘Well, if you need to use any equipment just come and get it from the office. Or if you need an extra pair of hands at any point just let me know.’

  ‘How is the Klown case going?’ I asked. Tempest had been hired to investigate the disappearance of a man, but it was an odd case because the man was not actually missing. He had joined a weird Klown cult that had sprung up recently. They were responsible for a lot of graffiti across the county that claimed the Klowns are coming. They also appeared to be behind some odd stalker type behaviour where several girls had been followed home at night by scary looking men in clown outfits. Nothing more sinister than that had occurred though until a few days ago when a girl was attacked with a knife. She had lived but was badly cut on her abdomen. It was scary stuff, but the man Tempest was engaged to find was answering his phone and refusing to come home. The client was the man's sister, who assured Tempest that he was in danger and needed to be rescued.

  ‘I am not sure there is a case,’ he replied, ‘I tracked him down and spoke with him, but since he does not want to come home and is doing nothing criminal, I don’t see what there is that I can do. I am considering giving the client her money back.’

  ‘Have you spoken with her?’

  ‘Not today. When we spoke yesterday, she once again implored me to bring him home at any cost. That would be kidnap though. He has every right to join a Klown cult and wear odd clothing if he wishes to.’

  We talked for a few minutes more and I promised to keep him updated on the case as it progressed. As I disconnected, Patience was arriving back at the booth with the open bucket of chicken and a drumstick sticking out of her mouth. She shoved the coke at me and pulled the drumstick away ripping a large chunk of meat off with her teeth. Grease was already visible on her fingers.

  ‘Damn this is good,’ she said between chews. I wondered if she planned to eat the entire bucket. It was designed for a family to share. Generally, I did not allow myself to indulge in such fatty treats, but it did smell good and my stomach gave a little growl as I considered maybe having one piece.

  ‘Are you sharing?' I asked, lifting my right hand to snag a piece of breast.

  She scowled at me from across the table, ‘You said you didn’t want anything.’

  ‘Hey, Hotstuff,' came a familiar voice. I turned to see the huge form of Big Ben blocking out the sunlight. He had just come through the door uncharacteristically alone. Big Ben usually had a woman with him, or so it seemed. Admittedly, I usually saw him with Tempest, but listening to the stories about Big Ben and the inordinate amount of shagging he does, my senses told me he had to be in the company of a woman pretty much all the time.

  ‘Hello, Benjamin,’ I replied pleasantly. I turned to introduce Patience only to find her with her mouth open and a piece of chicken hanging out. She looked like a dog staring at an especially tasty string of sausages.

  ‘Hi. I’m Big Ben,’ Big Ben said, introducing himself. He was smiling at Patience and she was completely bewitched. I had to admit it was a smile that was nice to look at. Big Ben was good for looking at if nothing else. He fell firmly into the category of man-candy at six feet and seven inches of solid toned muscle topped with an unfairly handsome face. I would never allow myself to be attracted to him though because I knew about his social habits: He went through women at the rate of one or more a day. I would have to fill Patience in on this later.

  ‘Murgh murrf,’ said Patience. She had managed to find enough self-presence to swallow the piece of chicken she had been eating but coherent speech was still evading her.

  ‘This is Patience,’ I explained.

  ‘Patience,’ Big Ben repeated, ‘That is something I could do with more of in my life. Maybe you can help me out with that,’ he said hitting her with a huge smile. I rolled my eyes.

  Big Ben slid in next to her, forcing her to scooch along a bit to allow him enough space. Smiling amiably still, he wiggled his eyebrows and selected a piece of chicken.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Patience invited him, finally finding her voice. She leaned forward at that point, pulling down her top slightly to reveal even more cleavage. It was a slick and clearly well-practised move.

  ‘Hmmm… leg or breast. I am a big fan of both,’ Big Ben claimed, his voice now taking on a husky edge, ‘Of course, I really like the dark meat,’ he said locking eyes with Patience. The usually sassy woman, who bossed men around and totally owned her own life just sat there and swallowed nervously.

  Goodness I was starting to feel uncomfortable. They were doing verbal foreplay in front of me.

  ‘Patience?’ I called across the table to get her attention.

  ‘Hmmm?’ I got in reply with a single raised eyebrow. It was as if she had forgotten I was there.

  ‘I need to go and check on the lifts. Are you coming, or shall I leave you here to eat?’

  ‘You go,’ she said, still looking at Big Ben, ‘I’ll catch up.’

  That would probably work better for me anyway. Minus Patience, I could check out the lifts without her trying to drag me into any shops. I put my phone away, picked up my diet coke and left her with Big Ben. I bid them both goodbye but neither one looked in my direction.

  Back inside the Pentagon, I checked every one of the lifts in turn. Both lifts on each bank. I could fi
nd nothing out of the ordinary in any of them. The two that had not been refitted this year stood out because they were old and grubby and graffitied. They seemed to be a little bigger than the others, which struck me as odd, but I assumed that the new panels to be fitted inside were thicker or something. There seemed to be little more I could gain by staring at the inside of the lifts. I had ridden each one up and down with no ghosts jumping out at me and no loss of power at any point.

  I sent a text to Patience as an hour has passed and I had not heard from her. I was planning to leave now. A few seconds later a text message pinged back to tell me Patience had already left Chatham with Big Ben. She had called me three times before giving up. Sure enough, there were missed calls on my phone when I looked properly. I guess the signal didn’t get through while I was in the lift or something. Her text said she would see me in the morning and she felt no need to expand on that. I wasn’t sure what I should write back. Good luck? Hope he is hung like a donkey? I elected to just leave her alone and hope she did not feel the need to regale me with any stories tomorrow.

  I checked my watch: It was 1757hrs. The Pentagon shops had already closed and the centre itself would be shutting its doors very soon. I walked back to my car and set off to interview some of the people that had reported the ghost attacks and missing shopping. Martin Miller had furnished me with a list of names last night. I had then found addresses for the names while I was in work today. Most of them were local. The nearest was a man who had been the second to report that his shopping had gone missing. He was walking distance from where I was but for speed and efficiency, I drove to his house with a plan to drive onwards from there anyway.

  Tyreke Franklin was a Jamaican man in his late fifties. He answered the door in house slippers, grey hopsack trousers held up with bright red braces and a white vest. He had a thick head of dreadlocks going down his back to almost touch his trousers and he had a great smile with a single gold tooth in place of his top right incisor. He invited me in almost before I had introduced myself.

  The house had a trace of marijuana about it, the sweet smell lingering in the fabric of the soft furnishings. I wanted to speak with as many people as I could, or perhaps as many as it proved necessary to form a consistent picture of the incidents, so I ignored the obvious smell, declined his offer of a drink and pushed the conversation forward.