Whispers in the Rigging

by steve higgs

  It turned out that it didn't matter because she was so darned efficient that I was solving twice the number of cases. She was fantastic with all the IT equipment, somehow automatically knowing how everything worked best and she was a demon at research. One might want to call her a geek, but the term didn't fit the profile as she was also a petite blonde with trim legs and a toned bottom and a pretty face.

  I didn't think of her in those terms, of course. Not because I am her boss and wouldn't entertain stray lecherous thoughts about an employee in my head. No. I didn't have those thoughts about Jane because she also has a penis.

  Jane was actually a man when I employed him but was one of the new-wave of gender-neutral persons that now seemed to be everywhere. It had no impact on me, so I made no comment either way. I will admit that I was curious about what underwear was worn when the Jane personality was dominant. No matter what might be happening on the outside there was still meat and two veg to put somewhere underneath and I doubted I would be comfortable balancing mine in a tiny thong.

  Jane thanked me as I handed her the miniature porcelain cup and saucer, but barely looked up from the array of screens in front of her. Like me, she liked to get in early and she was genuinely excited to do her job it seemed.

  I scurried back to the coffee maker as it was now spitting out my cup-full of excellence.

  I heard the back door of the office open as my colleague Amanda walked in. I refer to her as my colleague for two reasons. The first is that I have found myself mostly uncomfortable with the concept of employees. I want to work with people, not have them work for me. It made me feel too much like an overlord. That probably said something negative about my personality but so be it. The second reason was one I had been trying to avoid or deny ever since I met her: I was pretty much in love with her.

  She was dating a multi-millionaire and I was certain she had no interest in me or I would have found a way to express my feelings by now. For my part, I was dating someone too, but I had already half admitted to myself that the relationship had no future and had made no move to advance our relationship beyond a few dinners and kissing. For the last few days, I had been resisting seeing her at all, convinced she was going to drag me through her front door and take off her clothes.

  Natasha, the lady I have been dating, is a very attractive woman. A stunner most would say, but it was my inability to see beyond Amanda that drove me to believe it was love I was experiencing. So my wasted heart kept beating on despite the belief that she would never be mine.

  ‘Hi, Guys.’ She waved as she swung into her office to drop her bag and coat. ‘Wow! Smell that coffee. Is one of those for me?’

  The machine finished the second cup as she crossed the room toward me, smiling and gorgeous and everything I wanted. I handed it to her reluctantly. My adoration had limits.

  ‘Thank you, Tempest.’ She had her eyes closed and the cup raised to just under her nose to breathe in the scent.

  I had all but forgotten the coffee because I had just got a whiff of her perfume. It is my understanding that a given perfume smells different on everyone that wears it. The scent interacts with the person’s own biology to subtly change the way it smells. Whatever was in Amanda’s skin made perfume on her smell like heaven. It was a magnet to my libido. Or maybe I was just horny and she was the most beautiful and perfect woman on the planet.

  She had her eyes closed still, so didn’t notice my guilty glance at her body. Seeing her naked a while back didn’t help my ability to resist picturing her reclining on my bed.

  As I placed yet another cup under the twin spouts, Amanda opened her eyes and moved away to see what Jane was up to.

  The machine beeped to let me know it was out of hot water. Irritated, I stomped through the office to get more from the tap.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was buzzing from the two cups I had drunk and wondering if I should impose a personal limit of one. Amanda had spoken with Jane as she was doing some research for her and let me know she was going out. Her client was a lady that believed she had a cult of devil worshippers living next door. It was one of those odd cases where we could investigate but had limited options on what to do about it if we could show the lady that she was right.

  I was sitting at my desk scrolling through information on the Dockyard and making notes as I taught myself more about the place. There was no client for this case unless you wanted to say it was my parents, but the point was that I couldn't bill anyone for my time. Regardless of that fact, I was going into full investigation mode to find out who had hurt my father. The police had been informed and had conducted a cursory inspection of the scene. It wasn't a serious enough crime though and would not attract hard effort to track down the miscreant responsible. I was going to have to do this myself.

  Besides, one of dad's colleagues at the Dockyard, Alan Page, had backed dad's story that there was something going on. Whispers in the rigging room he had said. He regaled me with tales of ghosts in naval costume being reported by the night crew of cleaners and security. I didn't know how much was hyperbole or embellishment and how much was true but had vowed to find out for myself.

  I wanted a map of the yard to pin on my wall and I wanted the names of persons in key positions at the yard. My initial plan was to gain the attention of the chap that ran the place. If he would endorse my investigation, I might be able to move more freely or get a pass that would allow me access to places tourists couldn’t go.

  The CEO of the dockyard was easy enough to find. It was a man in his late thirties if the photograph on the website was current. His name was Alex Jordan. He had an MBA from a London business school and was a Royal Navy Reserves Officer. The Dockyard business website was separate from the tourist website. It, no doubt, existed for affiliate firms that did business with the Dockyard, but there I was able to find Alex and other personalities such as Julia Jones. Julia was head of facilities management so, in all likelihood, she ran the night crew of cleaners that came in after the tourists left for the day. The head of security was a man named Danylo Vakhno. He looked like a strongman competitor with his head like a bowling ball and crew-cut hair. The photograph of him only showed his head and shoulders, but even from that limited shot, I could tell he had some serious muscle.

  I dialled the number for Alex Jordan. A man answered.

  ‘Alex Jordan's office.' His voice was short but not terse, proficient and well-practiced like someone who answered the phone hundreds of times a day and had arrived at a response that did everything it needed to without any fluff. It was also heavily accented with an Eastern European twang that I could not pinpoint.

  ‘Good morning. My name is Tempest Michaels. I’m the son of Michael Michaels, the employee that was injured yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, goodness, yes. I heard about that. How is he? Mr. Jordan insisted we send a care package to him today.' He sounded genuinely concerned and upset.

  ‘He is still unconscious, but they believe he will make a full recovery.’

  ‘Oh good, good. How can I help you, Mr. Michaels?'

  ‘I am a private investigator by trade and I want Mr. Jordan's permission to look into the circumstances that led to my father's attack.'

  ‘Oh. Um.’ My request had caught him off guard. ‘I’ll, ah… I’ll put you on hold for a moment please.’

  He was gone, leaving me to listen to nothing as they had no hold music. The wait was less than twenty seconds though.

  ‘Can you visit here this morning, Mr. Michaels? Mr. Jordan will make time for you.'

  Perfect.

  I thanked him for his time, advised that I would be along within the hour and disconnected.

  Chatham Dockyard. Monday, November 21st 1018hrs

  I got to the Dockyard in twelve minutes. It was a straight shot through Rochester High Street to Chatham and the river bordered the route most of the way there. Now that it was a big tourist attraction there was plenty of parking and access to the Dockyard itself was easy – I just had to buy a tick
et.

  I had been to the Dockyard a couple of times to collect my father when he had been working a shift and we had made plans to catch a movie or something, so I was familiar with the layout of the place. I realised though, as I looked around, that most of the real estate was buildings that were not part of the tourist attraction. Staring at one building now, I acknowledged that I didn't know what it was or what it had once been or even whether it even had a purpose now. There were lots of buildings around it, beside it and behind it that I could classify in the same bracket.

  I was facing away from the river, so behind me in the dry docks were the submarine, Ocelot, a destroyer called Cavalier and a 19th-century wooden sloop named Gannet. In front of me were the buildings I could not identify and to my right, quite some distance away was the rigging room.

  To my left, was the entrance with its cafeteria and shop. I walked back to the entrance to see if there were maps of the grounds that labelled all the buildings. Perhaps a historic pictographic version that would show their original use.

  I scanned around until I found a flip-display of posters. What I wanted was the second to last poster I looked at – an aerial photograph of the dockyard taken several decades ago by the look of it. Running down the right-hand edge was a numbered list that corresponded to numbers on the poster. I had the name/purpose of each building.

  Satisfied, I walked to the cashier and paid the £9.99 asking price. As the lady there bagged my item, a book next to the till caught my eye: The Hidden Mysteries of Chatham Royal Dockyard. I picked it up, quickly leafed through it, and read the blurb on the back of the jacket. I became aware that the cashier was waiting for me to take my bag and leave and that the next person in line was becoming impatient.

  I handed the book over. ‘I’ll take this as well, please.’ It was rung up, my card tapped against the reader once more and pocketed after it beeped to confirm it had taken my money.

  The book might be a wasted expense but might also prove useful. I would only find out later.

  Inspecting the Dockyard was a task I could perform after I had met with the man that ran the place. He was expecting me at some point soon, so I asked the cashier where I could find him, a question which drew a deliberately audible sigh from the lady impatiently waiting to be served. The cashier's directions were easy to follow as she needed only to point to a desk on the other side of the room. Above the desk, hanging from the ceiling, the word information was written in large letters.

  I thanked her once more, smiled at the women in the queue behind me and took my book and poster.

  The lady at the information desk was a carbon copy of the cashier. She was polite and efficient though, so in under a minute, I left the shop and ticket area with a day map of the Dockyard that had a wobbly line drawn on it to get me from where I was to the Admiral's office where I would find Alex Jordan.

  Getting into the building that housed his office was less simple though. The building had a number on it, high on the right-hand side of the front façade as one looked at it. There were no other identifying marks, but it corresponded with the map and clearly had people moving about inside in what looked to be an office setting.

  A large oak door, the original entrance, was set into ornate masonry where it dominated the front of the building. An electronic pass reader had been installed for staff to gain access, but my repeated knocking failed to attract anyone's attention. After a minute that felt longer, I gave up on the door and found a window to knock on instead. The windows were above my head though, the ground floor of the building raised, probably as a flood defence so I could see the people inside moving behind the windows, but they could not see me unless they came to the window and looked down.

  Fortunately, a lady in designer glasses was curious enough about the knocking noise to investigate.

  ‘Can I help you?' She enquired politely.

  ‘Good morning. I have a meeting with Alex Jordan. I believe he works in this building but cannot seem to find a way in.’

  She smiled with a half chuckle that told me I wasn't the first person to encounter this issue. ‘There is a side door at the end of the building.' She pointed to my right. ‘That is where reception is. We have said they need to erect a sign, but they don't want to spoil the front of the building and they won't let us come in the door because we are not grand enough. We have to sneak in around the side.'

  ‘On this side of the building?' I confirmed by pointing as I set off and nodded my thanks.

  The building was long enough that I walked for a minute from its centre point to get to the far end. Once there though it was clear I was at the right place from a small sign asking visitors to report to reception and an arrow pointing through the door.

  Inside, an older man in a cheap suit checked by making a phone call to confirm that I was expected before directing me through the inside of the building and upstairs to where I would find the Admiral's office.

  The lady that had spoken to me through the window spotted me on my way through and gave me a small wave of triumph.

  I smiled at her but kept going.

  I reached a grand wooden staircase that led to a wide landing that wrapped around the stairs on the first floor. It met a series of large windows at the front of the building where it faced the river to provide an unrivalled and uninterrupted view over the panorama outside. The windows continued along the entire front face where it formed a corridor to give access to the many offices the upper floor housed.

  The landing was so vast it also housed a small open plan office where three ladies were working at separate desks. They all looked up as I broached the top of the stairs.

  ‘Mr. Michaels.' One said as I approached them. ‘Mr. Jordan's office is located at the far end of the hall.' She indicated that I needed to turn through one-hundred and eighty degrees and go the other way. ‘His personal assistant will be expecting you.'

  I thanked her, turned around and walked for another minute to reach the far end of the building. It was eerily quiet, the only sound, other than muffled voices from the three ladies behind me, my own footsteps.

  I arrived at an office door, which in contrast to all the ones I had just walked by, was facing me. The office at the end of the building dominated the entire end of the building. The door itself was of an ancient carved wood that might have been hewn from a derelict warship but looked able to keep out a horde if closed and locked. It was ajar but was opened fully by a man roughly twice my size before I reached it.

  ‘Mr. Michaels, yes?' Said the man as he extended a hand that was roughly the size of a trash can lid.

  ‘Indeed. Good morning.'

  ‘Mr. Jordan is expecting you.' A fact that had been made clear by everyone so far. ‘I'm Andriy Janiv. I am Mr. Jordan's personal assistant.' We were crossing the room toward yet another imposing door. The end office was in fact split in two so that the Admiral had a man on hand, presumably another senior Royal Navy Officer, that acted as his personal assistant even back then. Andriy's accent was thick with Eastern European tones. I could not place it, but it sounded Russian to my untrained ear. Perhaps he originated in one of the former Russian states.

  He knocked on the final door with thick knuckles, received an instruction to “Come” from inside and pushed the door open for me.

  ‘Mr. Michaels.' He announced as I stepped inside. The door closed behind me as Andriy shut himself back in his portion of the office.

  I had to admit it was an impressive place. The ceiling was high and ornately decorated. The walls were adorned with wood panels and the furniture, which might have been centuries old, looked priceless. Dotted about the walls were oil paintings in wide frames, each of them a different seascape and each probably more than one hundred years old. I wondered whether he got a private bathroom since the building and indeed the room preceded indoor toilets. Then I spotted a door on the wall to my right. It blended with the wood panels so well I had missed it at first. No doubt it had been fitted out with a bathroom sometime in t
he twentieth century.

  Alex Jordan was getting up from his desk to greet me. He looked just like his photograph and young to be commanding such a large facility. He was short and slight with fair hair parted to one side on the left.

  I closed the distance to him as I extended my hand. ‘Mr. Jordan, thank you for seeing me at such short notice.'

  ‘Not at all. Terrible business with your father. You said he is recovering?’

  Alex had a good handshake with a solid grip and he met my eyes when we shook. I liked him instantly.

  ‘The doctors believe he is. I will reserve my judgement until he is awake and talking.’

  ‘Of course.' Alex had moved back to take his seat behind his desk. ‘Sit, please.' He requested before taking his own chair. As I put down my bag and relaxed into the ornate chair with its arms of gold brocade, he asked me, ‘What is it that I can do for you, Mr. Michaels? I am given to understand that you are a private investigator of the paranormal. Is that right?' He touched his right ear.

  ‘I run an agency that specialises in cases with a paranormal or unexplained element, yes.’

  ‘Hmm.' Alex spun in his chair to face away from me, deep in thought. ‘You are aware we have ghosts here?' He turned the chair back to face me as he asked the question. As he did so he touched his right ear again. What I had taken to be an action brought about by an itch now looked deliberate as if he was signalling something to me that he could not say.

  ‘I am. It seems likely they are part of a ruse to conceal what is really happening and will be in some way connected with my father’s attack.’

  ‘What is really happening? You think there is something untoward occurring at the Dockyard?' His eyes were boring into me as he made the odd movement to touch his ear again. This time looking at the phone on his desk. I had no idea what he was trying to convey, but then it hit me that he might have Tourette's and the motion I has seen him repeat was involuntary. I chose to look away, conscious that I was now staring at him. As I did, I noticed a Ukrainian – English Dictionary on his desk. The accent I heard earlier today must be Ukrainian though I wondered how many Ukrainians he had employed that he felt a need to learn their language. Surely, they would all be fighting hard to learn English but perhaps it was a clever tactic to learn at least a little so he could greet them in a tongue they recognised. More good-boss points right there.