Blue Moon Investigations series Boxed Set 1

by steve higgs

  I got to my door, fished for my keys and opened it, pausing so the two savage hounds could tumble out to greet me. I slowly bent down to pat and fuss them both but did not pick them up as I often would; my ribs were just too sore.

  Inside the house, there was evidence that my parents had been there in my absence. On the drainer were two clean glasses that my mother had washed up by hand rather than put them in the infernal dishwasher. The dogs buzzed around my feet and stared at the cupboard that contained their food and bowls. Like most dogs, they were everlastingly hungry and would ask for a second breakfast if the first was more than a few seconds ago. I felt certain that my parents would have fed them but called my mother to check anyway.

  She answered on the third ring, ‘Hi, Tempest. Everything okay?’

  ‘Good morning, mother. Thank you for looking after the dogs last night and yes everything is just fine. The dogs are asking for breakfast. Did you feed them already?’

  ‘Of course, Tempest.’

  ‘I thought it would be so.’ I scowled down at the two hopeful creatures still circling my feet and pointing to the cupboard with their noses. ‘Shoo, the pair of you,’ I instructed. Disappointed, they gave up and wandered through to their bed in the lounge.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ mother asked.

  ‘I'm fine, mum. Just sore. I cannot take a deep breath so I will not be going to the gym for a while but otherwise, there is nothing wrong with me and I will recover fully in a few weeks.' I knew that mum just wanted to hear that I was okay. She did not like to consider that her children might be hurt or upset or anything else with a negative connotation. I expect most parents are the same regardless of the age of their children.

  We chatted for a couple of minutes while she once again reminded me that I needed to plant my overwintering vegetables if I wanted a crop next spring. She had already forgotten my broken ribs and that I would not be digging in the garden anytime soon. I bid her a good day and disconnected.

  I needed a cup of tea. Tea was a great healer for me, it had been for as long as I could remember. I started every day with a cup, I made one every day when I got in from work and I wanted one right now. They had offered me one in the hospital, but it had been terrible, making me wonder what they could have done to make it taste so bad. Tea is hot water over tea leaves with an option of milk and some sugar/sweetener. How does a person get that wrong? Anyway, I made myself a cup of tea and took it through to the lounge where I slowly eased myself onto the sofa. I had to put my cup on the floor to do so, which instantly attracted the attention of both my dogs.

  Bull’s head came up first, but Dozer was not far behind him. I gave a warning growl, but it did little to deter them. Edging forward as they were, I was caught halfway between sitting down and turning around again to retrieve my cup. It became a race, which I only just won, snatching the steaming cup from the carpet as they got to it. The beverage was too hot for me to drink still, so either or both of the daft hounds would have scalded themselves as they shoved their faces in it to steal a slurp.

  As a consolation, I encouraged them onto the sofa to sit with me. As they settled onto my lap and curled up, I found Gardener's World on BBC2 where Monty Don was teaching me that right now was the perfect time to put in bare-root stock fruit trees and reminding me that I needed to get my overwintering vegetables in now if I wanted a crop next Spring. I sunk back into the comfortable depths of the fabric, a dog keeping me warm on each hip and the tea balanced on my right thigh.

  I awoke briefly some time later when the sound of my tea being drunk reached my ears. I had fallen asleep, which didn't surprise me. Forcing myself to alertness, I let the dogs finish my tea. That the dogs had saved me from spilling it was my final thought as I drifted off again.

  The next time I came to, it was my phone that woke me, its ring cutting through my slumber uninvitedly. I had to roll Dozer off my hip to get to it. He was either still asleep, despite the vibration and noise coming from under his head, or perhaps dead. I would check once I had worked out who was calling me. It was a number I did not recognise, so I assumed it was a client. ‘Blue Moon Investigations, Tempest Michaels speaking. How may I help?'

  ‘Hello? Is this the man that investigates ghosts and what not?’

  ‘I am a paranormal investigator, yes,’ I answered. The voice at the other end belonged to a man. He had a deep rolling baritone that gave me the impression he could sing. He sounded hesitant but not unsure of himself, if that makes sense. I gave him time to gather his thoughts.

  ‘My colleagues and I may have a case for you.’ he replied.

  ‘Jolly good. Are you able to come to my office tomorrow morning? I asked.

  ‘What? Oh, yes. I suppose we can do that.’ I heard him speaking to someone, but in a muffled manner as if he had put his hand over the phone to mute the conversation at his end. ‘Yes, that will be fine,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Shall we say 0900hrs?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nine A.M.’ I translated. Civilians were so weird with how they said the time I thought to myself for the millionth time.

  There was more conferring at the other end before he said, ‘Yes, Mr. Michaels. That will suit us.'

  I made sure he had the address and bid the fellow a good day. Then I realised I had not enquired what the case involved or even taken his name. I was slipping. The painkillers were allowing me to breathe and were taking the edge off the pain in my ribs but now I might find myself being engaged to look into a case of alien, killer-robot chickens. There were some crazies out there and many of them wanted me to prove their theories correct.

  I focused on the television, the gardening show had ended, replaced by a political debate show of some kind. It was of no interest to me. I chose a news channel instead, catching it mid-way through a bland report. This one was on political unrest in a European country that I would struggle to find on a map. It soon ended though and went to adverts. The clock on my mantlepiece assured me it was almost 1100hrs so I would get headlines soon.

  The Klown story had been on the headlines of the National news broadcasts several times recently as the scare tactics had changed to assault and then to assault with a deadly weapon. Initially, I had believed it was just one person, dressing themselves up and scaring people because they thought it fun or because they were a little deranged. My early assumption was wrong though. This was not a lone player, there was an extensive team.

  The news headlines started, the two anchors talking to the camera in serious tones. I figured the Klown story would be third or fourth on the agenda, but I was wrong again. It was the lead story. I listened as they reported the first murder associated with the Klowns. Last night while I was being attacked there were yet more Klowns perpetrating a worse crime in Ightham – a village a few miles to the west. The victim was a man, no name released yet though his relatives had been informed.

  Murder.

  They had escalated their level of violence again. The report also covered the attack in Maidstone that I had been party to but in much less detail. A few injuries cannot trump a murder. The camera swung to the female anchor where a map of Kent was superimposed on the screen next to her. She was showing where all the attacks had taken place thus far. They were scattered from the Hoo peninsular down to the Thanet Sound and right across the Weald. It looked utterly random. Ironically her next words were outlining how random the locations seemed. The camera switched then to the chief constable for Kent. He was sat at a desk flanked by two other senior police officers. There were several microphones in front of him and flashes going off continually as photographers captured the moment for their papers or online blogs.

  The news anchor finished up speaking just as the footage of the chief constable started. He said, ‘I can report that this evening three persons in Klown costumes were seen running away from a house in Ightham. Calls for help were responded to by neighbours, who upon entering the property, found a man to have been repeatedly stabbed. Emergency services were
called but the man died at the scene before he could be transferred to hospital.' He paused before continuing. ‘This and the attack in the Lockmeadow district of Maidstone bring the tally of Klown related incident to thirty-five in the last two weeks. In a co-ordinated raid conducted by officers in seventeen towns across Kent, a total of twenty-two individuals have been arrested. The case continues at this time and we urge everyone to be vigilant. If you see a Klown do not approach them, call the police on this number.' On the screen, a number in bold red letters was displayed. The television then went to split screen with the chief constable on the right-hand side and footage of the arrests last night on the left. I strained my eyes at the screen. In the flashes of film, they showed men being led out of their houses or being stuffed into police cars. They were not what I had expected. They were not of the same ilk as the men I had fought with last night. In fact, they looked to be mostly late middle-aged and out of shape as if the police had misunderstood the instruction and rounded up all the postal workers instead.

  At the end of the report, I levered myself off the sofa. I was wrestling with my options for the day. I could not do much, but I was already getting bored with sitting on my bum. I have nervous energy, or at least I think that is how some would classify it. It manifests as an inability to sit still for very long unless I am distracted by something that can hold my attention. Typically, I will sit down for a short period but then remember a task that I intended to perform and will get on and do that instead. Generally, if I have something that needs doing, I will do it. Is this a positive trait? Probably, but not always. Anyway, I was restless and in need of activity, so I made a new cup of tea, this time in a thermos cup with a lid and took both it and the dogs for a slow walk around the village.

  It was cold out. The last of the overnight frost was still visible where the sun had not yet penetrated the shade. I zipped my winter coat all the way to the top and forced the Dachshunds into coats that had been specially made to fit their sausage-shaped bodies. They wore them with great reluctance, but they needed the extra layer to keep the cold at bay.

  The village was quiet at 1127hrs on a Sunday morning. It was a quiet village anyway, but at this time of the day any churchgoers were in the church enjoying being preached to, it was cold enough to put children off playing outside and too cold to wash the car on the driveway, so I had been walking for several minutes before I saw my first person. As I passed the pub, I realised that this was one of those Sundays where I could legitimately excuse myself from abstinence and have a couple of drinks. More normally, I do my drinking on a Friday or Saturday and spend a good hour thrashing myself at the gym on a Sunday. Gym was not an option today but almost tearfully I accepted that beer was not an option either. My painkillers were unlikely to mix well with alcohol and I wanted the painkillers more.

  As I turned off the main road and down a side street, I could hear a susurration. It sounded like a lot of people talking though I could not see anyone. I walked a few more yards and drew parallel with another street whereupon I spied the source of the noise. Outside a small terraced house about halfway along the short street was a small crowd of perhaps fifty people. They were spilling off the pavement and into the road. Mostly they were chatting between themselves, but I observed that they were all looking at one house in particular. As I watched, a young man in his twenties took two paces and kicked the front door of the house in a manner that suggested he was trying to kick it in.

  ‘Come out and face us!' he shouted when the door refused to yield.

  This formed unusual behaviour for the village of Finchampstead where normally I would claim that nothing ever happens. I knew from experience that the relative IQ of a crowd was somewhere near the square root of all the people’s IQs averaged. Crowds were dangerously stupid. Having formed, a crowd then wants to do something. People egg other people on. People whisper thoughts into other people’s ears and before you know it they are setting fire to cars.

  I looped the dog leads around a lamppost and left them a good few metres away from the crowd before I approached. As I came along the street, I saw a car with crude spray writing all along one side and I knew what the crowd were there for.

  The sprayed word was Klown.

  No one had noticed my arrival, or if they had they had assumed I was just coming to join in. The young man stepped forward to kick the door again. As he drew back his right leg, I pushed him over. So now I was centre of attention, all eyes on me. The shove I had given him pulled at my ribs a bit, but I was refusing to show that I already wanted to go for a lie-down.

  ‘What’re you playing at?’ asked a man just in front of me. I recognised him so perhaps he recognised me also. I did not know his name, but it was a small village, so we had probably stood together in the queue in the shop before.

  ‘That would be exactly my question also,' I replied, moving my gaze around so that I locked eyes with everyone in the small crowd. ‘It is Sunday morning in our peaceful little village and you lot are trying to scare a man from his house.'

  ‘But he is one of those clowns from the TV,’ complained a woman in the front row to a chorus of “Yeahs.” From many others.

  ‘Does anyone know the name of the man living here?’ I asked.

  ‘It's Cliff Maxwell,' the same woman said, now sounding not quite so sure of herself.

  ‘And you know this because?’

  ‘Well, I live next door but one.’

  ‘So, you are his neighbour. Has Cliff lived here long?’

  ‘What has that got to do with it?' asked the young man who had now picked himself up off the ground. I ignored him.

  ‘I’m waiting,’ I reminded the lady. I needed to be the one in control. I had to dominate the crowd until they came to their senses.

  ‘As long as I remember,’ she said reluctantly.

  ‘Can you tell us all what he does for a living?’ I asked, looking at the crowd rather than her. I was smiling now, my expression engaging and beginning to win over the people in front of me.

  ‘He is a clown!’ she delivered with gusto as if it were a crime in itself and she was revealing him as guilty.

  ‘Do you mean that he is a children’s entertainer?’

  ‘Um.’

  I addressed the crowd, ‘Has anyone had Cliff around to their child’s birthday party?’

  ‘Oh, yes. He came to my Tommy’s fourth birthday just a few weeks ago,’ said a young mum. I noticed that she had brought Tommy with her this morning to witness the lynching.

  ‘Did he display any behaviour at the time that made you in any way scared? Did he stab, maim or otherwise murder you or any of the guests at the party?’

  ‘Well, err no.’

  This thing was over. I could see the uncertainty in the faces of almost all the villagers in front of me now. A few were less happy about it though. I pressed on, ‘My dear fellow villagers, the man that lives here is a children's entertainer. Nothing more. The Klowns you have seen reports of on the TV are something else entirely. What on earth were you thinking? What were you going to do if you got him out of his house this morning? If he had run from the back door would you have given chase? What then? Beat him to death?' a few people were starting to drift away from the back row. Slithering back to their houses hoping they could later deny ever being here.

  ‘Hold on…’ started the young man again.

  ‘Did you vandalise his car?’ I demanded angrily.

  ‘What? No, I…’

  ‘Who did then?' I snapped, cutting him off. He looked genuinely innocent, but someone had painted the man's car and there might be damage to the man's house yet. ‘Where do you think you are all going?' I asked. People were now actively trying to be somewhere else. ‘This poor man has been besieged in his own home by you and his property has been damaged.' I reached behind me to knock politely on his door without taking my eyes off the people left still standing in front of me. Just then, a police car entered the street from the end I had walked from. I turned my head and sur
e enough, another police car was coming from the other end. The dispersing crowd were now trapped and had frozen.

  Behind me, the door opened. Just a crack. I heard the safety chain catch the door. I looked over my shoulder to see a slim section of a face peering around the door at me. ‘Mr. Maxwell the police are here. You are safe to come out now.

  The police cars had stopped about fifty metres apart and the occupants were getting out. I spotted immediately that the car to my right contained PC Amanda Harper, my new work colleague and another officer that I recognised as PC Hardacre. This would go smoothly now. Amanda spotted me and left PC Hardacre to the task of corralling the crowd so that she could join me at Mr. Maxwell's door.

  ‘Good morning, Amanda,’ I said.

  ‘Having a busy day, Tempest? I thought you were supposed to be taking it easy.’

  ‘That had been the plan,’ I conceded.

  I explained quickly what had transpired. Mr. Maxwell felt safe enough to leave his house once he saw Amanda's uniform, so was able to regale her with a more detailed account of events from his perspective. He had called the police before I arrived.

  I left Amanda dealing with the villagers and collected my dogs from where I had left them. As I said goodbye to Amanda, she told me that this was the third such incident this morning. Vigilante crowds were targeting children's entertainers all over Kent. Mr. Maxwell had been lucky compared to some it would seem. Others had sustained injuries at the hands of their idiot mobs. I wondered then if across Kent there were men that owned clown suits barricading their homes for fear of attack.

  The dogs pulled me to the park in the centre of the village so that I would unclip them from their leads. I found that it was a long way down to them with my ribs hurting the way the currently did, but I let them off and watched as they scampered away.

  Soon enough, I was back home and surprisingly relieved to be back in the warmth of my house. Normally the cold does not bother me. I learned to ignore it a long time ago and had always held the opinion that it simply does not get cold in England. Not really. The opinion, of course, was born from having spent time in countries where it genuinely does get cold. I wondered if perhaps I was just feeling it more today because I was feeling battered in general.