by steve higgs
‘So, what will you do with the case?’ Amanda asked.
‘I think I have to call Mrs. Plumber and give her back her money.'
‘Really? You have spent a number of hours genuinely pursuing this case on her behalf. Surely you deserve to be paid for that?’
‘It could be argued. However, I am not comfortable taking her money and delivering her nothing. I will call her and explain the current situation later.’
‘What about his location? The police would be very keen to learn where the Klowns are hiding. If they are all together. What they are planning. Whether they would like to all turn themselves in perhaps.’ She was being flippant, but also serious about wanting a lead that would get the police closer to catching them.
‘Yes, I should try harder to do something about that. This chap is probably the only Klown whose identity is known.’
‘What is his name again?’ Amanda was rooting around in her bag for a notepad.
‘Adrian Plumber.’
She noted it down along with his phone number and a few details that I had been able to get from him. I suspected it was a dead end, but I also knew that sometimes it was necessary to pursue every lead because you could not tell which one would play out.
‘What did he do for a living, before he became a Klown?’
‘He was a lawyer. Can you believe that? He practised tax law at a firm in London making what I would assume was a pretty good wage.' The information had surprised me.
‘A lawyer?’ I nodded. ‘And he ran away to join a gang of criminals that like to dress as evil Klowns?’
‘Yup.’
‘I have said it before, Tempest. There is a lot of weird stuff around you.’
Amanda yawned and stretched in place on her bar stool, lifting her arms high above her chest as she did. The action pushed her ample chest out, something that happened all too often for my pathetic libido to handle. I snatched my gaze away from her, lest I be caught staring, only to find that I was now looking into the mirror behind the bar and staring at her anyway. I dropped my eyes and focused on my glass.
Done with the yawning and stretching routine, Amanda slid delicately from her bar stool, gathered her bits into her handbag and wished me a good evening. She was off to get ready for work. One of her last few shifts.
I refused to allow myself to watch her leave. I had to stop torturing myself with fantasies that I would ever have a relationship with her. Yes, she was utterly lovely to look at, spend time with, be around, but she was also my employee and almost certainly out of my league. I swirled the last of the liquid around in the bottom of my glass and made a decision.
I needed a distraction. A different lady on whom my interest could be diverted. There had been a number of recent options when I thought about it, chief among which was a woman I had gone to school with. I had not seen her in years until last weekend when she had turned up at a baby shower for my heavily pregnant twin sister. She was one of the girls I had secretly lusted after in my teenage years and would have, back then, cut off bits of myself to have seen naked.
Her name was Sophie Sheard. I had her phone number, I knew she was single, I also knew she wanted me to call her, she had made that part clear in a subtle yet very transparent way.
The two pints of beer were now fully in my bloodstream which had dulled the edge of the afternoon's drama and probably imbued me with a false sense of confidence. Whatever the case was, I felt like it was a good time to make a move, so sat relaxing by myself, I chose to call her. She had given me her number and an invitation to call last week. If I left it any longer my call might be less welcome. She might not welcome it anyway I mused, but I wanted to find out. I did not remember much about Sophie, other than she had been one of the really cool and pretty girls at school and that she had been friends with my sister. The phone rang for a while and I was about to hang up when she answered.
‘Hello?’ she said hesitantly, probably because she did not recognise the number on her phone.
‘Sophie, good afternoon. It’s Tempest.’
‘Oh. Hi, Tempest,' she replied brightly, clearly excited that it was I calling her. It boosted my ego immediately.
‘I was wondering if you might be available for a coffee or a glass of wine, or maybe even dinner sometime soon? It would be nice to have a proper catch-up.' I was inviting her out for a date but playing the romantic element down. It felt normal and natural to do so. I could have suggested we meet up and get to know each other better, but that had all manner of further connotations.
‘That sounds wonderful. When were you thinking?’
Suddenly on the spot, I had no idea what to suggest. I was free every night in theory until a case demanded I be elsewhere. Fumbling for words I was just about to speak when she did.
‘I have no plans for tonight if you are free.’
Suddenly I wished that I had no plans, but unfortunately, I did. ‘Ah. Sorry, Sophie. I am out with some chaps tonight. How about something tomorrow?’ Big Ben probably would have told me to cancel my plans with him and the other guys and focus my efforts on getting laid. However, I was not the type that changed my arrangements because a better deal had arisen.
‘Yes. That sounds great. I'll leave the details up to you. I am free all day, so let me know what you want to do and count me in.' It was an adventurous approach. I could come up with anything from cave diving to bungee jumping. However, I would, of course, arrange to take her for a nice lunch somewhere so that we could chat.
‘Thank you for being so trusting. I will book us a table for lunch at a nice restaurant and will confirm the time later. Does 1400hrs sound okay?’
‘Huh?’
‘I mean two o’clock. Does two o’clock sound about right for lunch tomorrow?’
‘Oh. Yes. Two o'clock sounds fine. I am looking forward to it already.'
We said our goodbyes and disconnected. I stared at myself in the mirror behind the bar, telling myself that this was a good thing, that I had made a good decision. Sophie was attractive, she was single, and she was clearly interested in me. I gave myself a mental slap. It did little to remove the residual echo telling me that she was not Amanda.
I hopped off my bar stool, grabbed my phone and headed for the door. With two beers in me, I was not going to drive for at least an hour. I also needed to eat something, and I had to call Mrs. Plumber, so I tottered along the street, telling myself that the alcohol was not affecting my stride and arrived at my office ten minutes later with a footlong sandwich and a bottle of water in a bag.
My office sits above a run-down travel agent shop in Rochester High Street. The entrance to it is around the back where there is a convenient car park. I rented the office from the chap that owns the travel agent shop, an equally run-down man called Tony Jarvis. He looked to be close to retirement and to have largely lost interest in the business. I also worried that he made very little money from his endeavours, yet he charged me a paltry rent that I was very happy to pay. I opened the door at street level and jogged up the stairs to my office. The office itself was quite small but had enough room for an office desk and chair plus a small table and two more chairs by the window that overlooked the High Street and I kept another couple of stacking chairs in a corner in case I had more than two visitors. A door led through to a short corridor and a toilet that I shared with the travel agent shop.
On my walls were Post-it notes from various cases, a map of Kent, which is where all my cases thus far had been, and a couple of whiteboards that came in handy when I was trying to visualise my ideas about what odd event may have led a client to believe they had suffered a paranormal visitation.
I sat at the table by the window and watched people going about their lives while I ate the delicious sandwich. It was more food than I really needed but I hoped it would absorb some of the beer I had just imbibed. Lunchtime drinking was not something I did more than a couple of times a year, not because I didn't want to, but because I have little tolerance for alcohol and the practice tended to put me
into a torpor for the afternoon. Today felt like one of those days when it could be justified though.
My sandwich eaten and lips delicately dabbed clean with a napkin, I downed the last of the water and pulled my phone from the pocket it was hiding in. A couple of quick swipes and Mrs. Plumber's name and number appeared.
She answered on the third ring just as I was stifling a belch. It caught me off guard.
‘Mrs. Plumber, this is Tempest Michaels of the Blue Moon Investigation Agency.' I managed after she had said, "Hello." twice.
‘Oh. Mr. Michaels. Have you news?'
‘Not exactly, Mrs. Plumber. In my last report, I explained that Adrian had spoken with me on the phone and that he intends to stay where he is.’
‘Yes,’ she said, expectation in her voice.
‘The essence of the matter, Mrs. Plumber, is that he is entitled to do so. He is an adult. He has not been kidnapped and is not being held against his will. Were that the case, it would be a job for the police instead of me.'
‘But can you not find out where he is so that I can get him?’
‘It may be possible for me to track him down, Mrs. Plumber, but I have to point out that I am racking up a lot of hours with your case. If you wish me to continue I can do so, but I believe that Adrian does not wish to be found. He refused to divulge his location.'
‘Can you not track his phone?’
‘I can, but it is not quite as simple as they suggest on television. I have already tried to do this in fact, but it only works if the person’s phone is switched on when you perform the search. Thus far I have not been able to locate him. He switched his phone off immediately after my conversation with him.’
‘So, what are you saying?’
‘Mrs. Plumber, I am not confident that I will be able to help you to track down your brother and were I able to do so I could not hold him until you arrived. He is free to come and go as he pleases. The Klowns appear to be committing minor crimes but there is nothing to indicate that your brother is involved. I feel I should halt my investigation at this time and refund your initial payment.' It would leave me a little out of pocket for the work I had done this week but my conscience would be content.
Mrs. Plumber was silent for a moment before she spoke. ‘Tempest,' she started, using my first name for the first time, ‘I am worried about my baby brother. I think he is going to come to harm and I mean to rescue him. From himself if necessary. Please keep the deposit and please find my brother. When you do I will work out how to bring him home.' Her voice was full of emotion that sounded quite genuine. I knew I could not refuse her, I was such a sucker for a lady in need of help.
‘Very good, Mrs. Plumber. I will take whatever steps are necessary.'
We disconnected and I stared at the whiteboard on the wall by the desk – it was as blank as my mind. This wasn’t even a paranormal case, not that it mattered because I had no idea where to start.
Maidstone Bowling Alley. Saturday, 22nd October 1942hrs
I arrived home at 1612hrs. My office and home were only three miles apart, a fact I found thoroughly pleasing as I had no desire to commute into London every day like so many others in the area did. Behind my door, waiting for me, were my two faithful canine companions, Bull and Dozer. Were it not for them I would live alone and most likely be lonely. I had notions of living with a woman in the blissful, warm blanket of mutual love but thus far was finding such a partner elusive. My housemates instead were two miniature black and tan Dachshunds, brothers that had come from different litters but looked identical to most people. Of course, I could tell them apart just from the feel of their fur or from their sound of their bark, but then I lived with them and had them sat on my lap every day.
Bull had arrived first. He was a proud and noble dog that held his head high and kept his tail ramrod straight. He could be found watching for danger, or perhaps squirrels, and he was everything a man could want in his trusted sidekick. I had gone back to the same breeder to get another one just like him roughly a year later. Bull's younger brother, Dozer, displayed some alternate characteristics though. He was a bit dopey, his expression, rather than give you the impression he was sizing you up, was one that made me think a cartoon thought-bubble drawn above his head would be empty. He walked into things, he would lift a back leg to scratch himself and fall over. He was arguably my favourite of the two. Not that I would admit that to Bull as he would widdle in my shoes if he knew. They were the most ridiculous dogs a chap could choose to have, but I loved them, and they came with the added advantage that ladies tended to cross the street to pet them.
They performed their usual routine of fussing around my trouser legs before running to the back door. I let them out and watched as they sped across the lawn, chasing away the wood pigeons that had been pecking at grubs in the grass. They vanished under a bush I probably needed to prune, so I left them outside while I wandered through to the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea.
I was going out bowling tonight with a few mates. A couple of weeks ago, my good friend Jagjit had suggested we do something different from just hanging out at the pub in the village and the idea of a night out bowling at the local alley had developed. The alley was walking distance for Big Ben, as he lived in the centre of town in a penthouse apartment overlooking the river. The rest of us were travelling into town together, or at least that had been the plan. Fighting a zombie hoard had not been on my diary for today and the event was having a knock-on effect on other plans. In the original plan, I was supposed to have been getting picked up by Jagjit at 1700hrs, but I had texted the chaps and ducked out of the food part of proceedings as I was no longer hungry after my sandwich and needed to attend to my body after the zombie battle. The chaps would still enjoy their steaks at the restaurant we had booked, and I would catch them up later at the alley.
The dogs reappeared from the garden, so I fed them and took them out for a proper walk around the village. The small village of Finchampstead is surrounded by woodland, crop fields, and vineyards, with paths that crisscrossed and circumnavigated the village. The setting made it a great place to live and a super place to walk a dog. I got back to the house at 1810hrs. I was expected at the alley for 1930hrs, so I had about an hour before I needed to be in a cab heading to town. I took myself for a bath, shucking my clothes into the laundry basket and checking myself in the tall mirror while the steam billowed up from the tap. I had cuts, scrapes and a bite wound to check out though thankfully none of them were worth being concerned about. I took a photograph of the bite mark wondering if I would end up with an album of stupid wounds from my cases. The bath was glorious and made me sleepy, so I stayed longer than intended and when I finally forced myself out, I found the two dogs asleep on my bed. I was tempted to join them and gave the concept of staying home some serious thought. In the end though, despite being in two minds, I felt compelled to do as I had planned. I hated it when people cancelled at the last moment, so I was not going to be the one that did.
By the time I arrived at the bowling alley, the effect of the two beers I had put away at lunchtime had worn off and I was looking forward to having a couple more. Jagjit was designated driver for the night, so I had a lift home secured already.
As I went up the stairs and into the Bowling alley, my nostrils were assailed by the myriad familiar smells it contained. Beer, burgers and other fried foods, and the grease or oil they used to dress the lanes. I took in a deep breath and held it, savouring the remembered scents. I was a big fan of a night out bowling though I couldn’t remember the last time I had. Was it the simplicity of smashing things that spoke to my inner boy? Looking around, there was no sign of the guys but rather than send them a text to question their tardiness, I ordered a beer from the bar and settled down to wait for them.
Around me, I could see people of all ages, races, and beliefs. Many of the groups I looked at had a blend of exactly those demographics. Of course, there were also people who were not so easy to categorise into a race or even g
ender. One person, probably a woman, looked more or less like a baked potato had decided to get dressed and go out for the evening. In addition to the rather unique body shape, its attire was a blend of colours that, if I were challenged to achieve the same, I might do so by forcing a rainbow and a unicorn into a blender. I might then throw in a grenade for good measure. The hair matched. He/she appeared to be happy though so any judgement about him/her stayed in my head. I liked that despite the craziness of the zombie attack today no one seemed concerned for their safety. They were out having fun.
‘Hey, spunk ferret,’ called a voice across the room in a volume loud enough to be heard over the general din of conversation. The voice belonged to Big Ben, a friend and former army colleague who often helped out on cases when I needed a little extra muscle. ‘I hear you had some fun with zombies today.’
I turned around on my bar stool to face the chaps as they approached. At Big Ben's comment, many of the other patrons had paused their conversations to watch us. Partly this was because of the gregarious way in which Big Ben had announced his presence, and partly because at six feet and seven inches tall plus annoyingly good-looking, people tended to stare at him anyway.
Basic and Jagjit were ahead of him, but they all arrived at the bar together and we did a round of shaking hands. The young lady behind the bar appeared, guessing correctly that more drinks would be required. While she poured them and lined up the cold glasses on the bar, I regaled them with my day's activities and pulled up the sleeve of my polo shirt to show them the bite mark on my right deltoid.
‘A real zombie bite mark,’ Jagjit observed. ‘Not many people around that can claim one of those.’
‘Hur, hur,' Basic laughed. Basic's real name was James Burnham but had been given his nickname at some distant point in the past. I would never employ such an insulting term, but it was how he introduced himself. The name was in reference to his rather limited intelligence. He had a job collecting the abandoned trollies at a supermarket and he looked after himself well enough, but he lived with his mum and in all fairness, he was really, really thick. His I.Q. was somewhere around that of a dog or a pig or a school gym teacher. He was a good guy though and he contrasted brilliantly with Big Ben as a study in genetics. Big Ben could most accurately be described as an Adonis, like he was a more perfect or more advanced version of man, whereas Basic was a Neanderthal.