Whispers in the Rigging

by steve higgs

  Sitting on the edge of my bed and scratching myself idly, I ran through what I had learned the previous evening. It was a short list which had at the top of it that Pasha was so engaged in managing the cleaning crew that she could not be distracted by Big Ben’s attentions. I had to admit that most women were putty in his hands once he turned on the charm. She, however, was not, but while it was unusual, there was nothing in it that I considered to be suspicious.

  Beyond my thoughts on Pasha, all I had was voices coming through pipes in the rigging room and the belief that there was a room of some kind beneath it. It was close to where my dad had been found and perhaps formed the epicentre of the mystery so far.

  Then there was the scary ghost that had not been scary at all if one assumed it was a buffoon in a costume. We had both spotted the ghost’s perfect rows of teeth as they shone in the light. Three hundred years ago no one had teeth and those that did had terrible ones that were falling out of their heads. Of course, had I been asked what I thought the ghost was before I had seen it, I would still have said it was a person in an outfit, but then, unlike everyone else that might come across it, I did this for a living.

  I had a rough plan for my day and it was all about getting to the bottom of what had happened to my father. More normally, I would be off to the gym or going out for a run, but I felt an enhanced pressure to focus all my effort on this case to the point that I was dismissing everything else.

  As I got up to make my way to the shower, I remembered that Natasha had sent me a text last night. In it she had politely pointed out that she hadn’t heard from me and was hoping we could see each other soon. I hadn’t replied, which was mostly because Anyanka had heard the incoming text and had raised a warning eyebrow at me so I would know she felt I didn’t have time to answer it. I had to acknowledge though that I also hadn’t answered since then because I wasn’t sure what to say.

  I doubt my situation is unique, but I find myself rather enamoured with a woman I am not dating; my colleague and employee Amanda Harper. I cannot even explain what it is about her that transfixes me, other than my belief that she is womanhood perfection personified. Natasha is gorgeous. Utterly beautiful, engaging to speak with, intelligent and delightful to have in one’s company. Yet when we kiss nothing happens. In my head that is. Plenty is going on about three feet south where an angry beast is screaming to be set free. In my head and probably in my heart, I know that I have no future with Natasha. I always hated breaking up with women though, cowardly in my preference that they would ditch me.

  Rinsing shampoo from my hair, I forced myself to promise I would text her back and explain what had happened to my dad and where I had been for the last couple of days. That would buy me some time, but I was supposed to be taking her to Jagjit’s wedding on Friday. She was my date and we had a room booked at the wedding venue that night. It was inevitable that we would have sex and I knew she was getting impatient.

  Mr Wriggly thought it was about goddam time and was mocking me, oh no, you’ll have to have sex with the single, available, large-breasted, gorgeous woman. However will you cope?

  He had a point and was beginning to stir at the thought of her abundant chest and what it might be like to get my hands on it. I didn’t have time for him though, there were things to do.

  ‘Come on, lazy dogs.’ I called as I went back into the bedroom, drying my skin and hair as I went. My outfit for the day was business casual as usual. I found myself wanting to wear heavy boots instead of stylish men’s shoes so as I slipped on the supple, brown-leather oxfords, I yet again found myself questioning whether I would have to fight someone in them. It was my ability to deliver a kick without hurting myself that was driving the desire to don something sturdier. All too often, my innocent investigative work led to confrontation and the need to defend myself. Shoes had a habit of coming off in a fight. You don’t see soldiers wearing loafers, do you?

  The dogs plopped off the bed to the carpet where they each performed a complex series of stretches – a sight to behold on a miniature Dachshund I can assure you. I scooped one under each arm to carry them downstairs, then fought to hold onto them as they struggled to break free and get to the back door.

  With maniacally excited barking, they cleared the lawn of wood pigeons as I filled my kettle and thought breakfast thoughts.

  My phone rang. I had a mug in one hand and the tea caddy in the other. It was my cross-dressing assistant at the other end though. The tea caddy was discarded so I could thumb the phone to speaker.

  ‘Good morning.’ I halloed, deliberately not addressing my assistant by name as I could not tell which one would be in use today.

  ‘Hi, boss, It’s Jane.’ She helpfully supplied. ‘Are you coming to the office today? I have some interesting details on the Dockyard.’

  I had tasked her yesterday with researching recent newsworthy events. She was a whizz at digging up information and had a nose for what might be pertinent. Much like Amanda, the other detective I had taken on to share the workload, she was worth her weight in gold.

  ‘I’m just getting some breakfast, but I’ll be there in half an hour.’ I replied. Jane was used to me coming and going as I pleased. Not because I owned the business and I wasn’t to be questioned, but due to my semi-regular stakeout activities and nocturnal ghost hunts. It was the nature of the job that some of it had to be done at night.

  The dogs barked to be let back in. They wanted their breakfast, as did I, so I disconnected the call with a promise to see her soon and went to let them in.

  Twenty-eight minutes later I pulled into the parking space behind my office. Amanda’s car was absent, not that I had a specific need to see her, I just liked to touch base to see how she was getting on and whether she wanted my help with anything. I had only seen her in passing yesterday which meant the last worthwhile conversation had been Friday and then it was via a phone call.

  We operated independent of each other, tackling our own cases and billing hours. I had taken her on only a few weeks ago with little plan as to how it would work. There were so many enquiries I could probably take on a third detective if I wanted to. But it was confusing enough for me with just the two of us for now and hiring a third would mean we had to office share somehow as the building only had two rooms at the back which gave Amanda and I an office each.

  I made a mental note to call her once I had checked in with Jane and let myself in through the back door. The two dogs scampered ahead of me to reach the next door as fast as they could, then waited impatiently once more for me to open that, their little tails whipping back and forth in excitement. That they could find such pleasure in the most basic events was a marvel.

  They were both butting the base of the door with their tiny heads as I turned the handle to open it, then moving their feet so fast they could scarcely keep their grip on the short office carpet tiles. They bumped each other continually as they rushed in, turned left and hurtled toward Jane at her desk.

  I found it quite notable that where some people found Jane’s choice to wear ladies’ clothing odd or distasteful or some other negative emotion, the dogs couldn’t give a monkey’s. They wanted to be petted and fussed and given treats. The person supplying said treats could be a serial killer in a tutu and biker boots for all they cared. They judged people by a different set of rules.

  ‘Hi, Jane.’ I called as I hung up my coat. The coffee machine was next on my list of things to do. I called out, ‘Want one?’ As I made my way to it.

  ‘Yes, please.’ She answered in return. When the last office burned to the ground, I lost mundane items such as the kettle I had there, so when I went to the electrical retailer to replace it, they had a stand inside the front doors displaying funky hi-tech coffee machines.

  Let’s just say the salesman didn’t have to work hard for his commission. The only drawback was that the coffee in my office was better than the stuff at home now and I sometimes found myself wondering if I should take the machine home with me at night
for safekeeping.

  As I took Jane her delicate porcelain cup, I asked, ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Well, firstly, they have an odd employment policy going on somewhere because everyone taken on in the last few months is Ukrainian. That can’t be an accident.’

  I nodded. ‘I met some of them. Almost the entire night-shift cleaning crew is Ukrainian. Big Ben and I stood out.’

  Jane looked at me.

  ‘Well, more than normal I mean.’ People say I look dominating and surly when I am not smiling. I don’t see quite how I can manage to look intimidating when I usually have two miniature Dachshunds at my feet, especially since both of them can be relied upon to either fall asleep or roll on their backs for a tickle whenever I stop moving. Big Ben though, he does tend to stand out. He would anyway, just because at six feet seven inches tall he is always the tallest person in the room, but he is also the most strikingly handsome man most people have ever seen either in the flesh or on the big screen. When you add to that, that he carries a surprising amount of muscle for a person that is not a professional bodybuilder, well, he stands out, that’s all.

  ‘There are a few people left in key positions that are British, most notably the CEO and the Facilities Manager, and the tour guides themselves appear to still be British Nationals, but anyone new is not.’

  While she was speaking a series of dots were joining in my head. ‘Big Ben and I saw the ghost last night.’

  ‘I thought it was ghosts?’

  ‘A valid point. We only saw one, but of course there can be as many as they want since it is just some tit in an outfit. I am thinking that the ghost thing, which started a few weeks ago now, could be aimed at the local persons that worked there. Get rid of the locals, or more generally the British, and replace them with Ukrainians. The ghosts are used to scare away the people they want rid of. Almost all the guards are now Ukrainian. There are only two of the original guard left.’

  ‘To what end?’ Jane asked.

  I nodded again. ‘That’s the question. If it is deliberate, and it certainly feels like it is, then what are they trying to achieve?’

  ‘Who stands to gain?’ Jane echoed the thought in my head. It was a standard question I asked myself with most cases.

  I parked the thought until I had more pieces of the puzzle. ‘What else have you got?’

  Jane tapped a few keys. ‘I was looking at staff employment as a general background check when I stumbled onto the Ukrainian thing. All the staff that left have done so voluntarily, no sign of people being sacked. Except for this chap.’

  Jane swivelled one of her screens toward me, so I could see the face of the man it showed. He was in his sixties and bookish, which is to say I would guess librarian if someone asked me to name his profession. His hair was mostly gone, a few wisps clinging to the sides of his scalp above his ears. His nose was a little red and veins riddled his face. The picture was a head shot, the sort taken for a staff photograph that is then used for your ID badge.

  I asked, ‘What’s his story?’

  ‘He was sacked on November 3rd. Summarily dismissed according to the HR database.’ My instant thought was to ask Jane how she was reading from the HR database of the Dockyard, but I already knew the answer would be that she had hacked it. Getting caught wasn’t something I was worried about, not for a private firm where we were not using the data against them.

  Instead I asked, ‘Does it say why?’

  ‘No, however, I thought you might be interested to know his address is in Upnor.’

  I looked away from the screen. Upnor was no distance from the office at all. Maybe fifteen minutes if I got caught in some traffic. The tiny village bordered the river and only existed at all because it had a castle right at the water’s edge. I forget the purpose or reason the castle was built now but remembered a school trip there when I was much younger.

  The dogs could have a good walk along the beach if the tide was out and I might learn something from the man.

  I was going out.

  Upnor. Tuesday, November 22nd 1103hrs

  The man’s name was Cedric Tilsley. Jane hadn’t been able to find a number for him, so I was going to have to knock on his door and hope he was in, but Upnor is a small place, even compared with my home village of Finchampstead. The road through the countryside swept downhill to the river coastline where it hugged the water with houses bordering the inland side until it terminated little more than two hundred yards after the village started. Despite its tiny size, it had two pubs which I knew maintained a steady trade through the warmer months when tourists were drawn to the castle grounds and the yacht club regattas.

  Though I hadn’t been to Upnor in some years, the public carpark I remembered was still there. Whether it ever got busy I couldn’t guess, but on this dingy, damp Tuesday morning in November, mine was the only car in it.

  The dogs had sensed that we were arriving somewhere, their reaction as always to climb up the door so they could peer out the window. As I pulled to a stop, they ran across the seat and leaped the transmission tunnel to arrive on my lap. They wanted to explore, and for once, given that Upnor was basically a dead end, I opened the door and let them go.

  They shot off toward the water, crossing the path and jumping down to the pebbles below where there were undoubtedly many, many smells to draw their attention. I stopped to open the boot where I kept an old pair of army-issue boots. I had learned early on in my career as an investigator that all too often the footwear would prove to be inappropriate for the environment I was drawn into. With the boots securely tied to my feet, I ambled after them, taking my time and enjoying the view across the river. I took in the vista, which stretched to the left to show me Chatham and Rochester, plus a glimpse of Gillingham in the distance and to the right where the newly developed St. Mary’s Isle was jutting out into the water. The sky was grey, but it did not cause California Dreaming, rather it felt right for the time of year. As the land swept upward on the opposite side, the wide expanse of open land known as the Great Lines could be seen beyond the few tall office blocks in Chatham city centre. On the other side of that was Medway hospital and my father.

  Snapping back to the present and thinking about the case, I remembered my intention to call Amanda, fished out my phone and wandered after the dogs as they scurried along the beach together.

  It rang for a few seconds before it connected. ‘Hi, Tempest.’ Her wonderful voice pulled at my heart and my libido simultaneously. To me it always sounded like angels laughing.

  ‘Good morning, Amanda.’ I replied. ‘I’m just calling to check in. To make sure you have all you need and have not been kidnapped by a voodoo priest or anything.’

  She laughed at me though it was hardly a joke. I wouldn’t say she needed regular rescuing, no more than I did at any rate. However, it was a genuine concern whenever I hadn’t heard from her for a while.

  ‘Thank you for checking on me. I am not currently kidnapped.’ She assured me with amusement in her voice. ‘How is your dad?’

  ‘He is still unconscious, so no change there, but the doctors seem convinced he will wake soon and make a full recovery. Thank you for asking. Are you on a case?’

  ‘I have three cases currently. Actually, I am lurking in a doorway in Canterbury, waiting for my target to appear on one of them.’

  ‘Anything interesting?’

  ‘That would depend on how one defines interesting, but what I have is a client whose family have been losing sleep for many months because of moaning noises in the night. When I started investigating, I discovered that it wasn’t just them, there were fifteen families in the same street affected by the nightly event. I think I have traced it to a single person, an old man that lives on the same street. I am calling him the sandman for now, but I cannot work out how he is doing it, or why, or even if it is deliberate. So, I am following him around and building a picture of his activities.’

  ‘The sandman, huh? Good name.’

  ‘It seemed t
o fit. Ooh, here he is. Gotta go. I’ll message later.’

  The line went dead in my ear. I had wanted to touch base with her and I had. She was completely capable of managing her time and workload and was billing three times what I was paying her, which was twice what she earned as a police officer. The surplus money was going directly into the firm’s bank account and was therefore mine. Something about that made me uncomfortable though. Acknowledging that I was a terrible businessman because I didn’t like profiting from my employees, I already knew I was going to make Amanda a partner at some point. I would be more comfortable once I had although there was a voice at the back of my head telling me that she would then no longer be my employee so any romantic pursuit I might engage in would be less creepy.

  I put the phone back in my pocket while berating myself for yet again daydreaming about my perfect employee with her perfect smile, perfect figure and…

  FFS.

  I shook my head to rid myself of her image. By the water the dogs had found something. They were always finding something to sniff but it was usually a dead fish or something equally smelly. Their latest find was a brown cardboard package.

  When I got closer, I could see it was a box. It had been in the water and lost its square shape although the glue sealing the flaps on the lid had not yet lost its bond. It was roughly square and about fifteen inches along each side by about six inches high.

  I said, ‘Move along, chaps.’ To keep the dogs going, but as I dismissed the box, I noticed writing on the top. It was not English. Now, I couldn’t tell what language it was, but it looked Eastern European to me. It wasn’t German or French or Spanish but had the gibberish jumble of letters I would associate with Welsh only with lots of accents added. Was it Ukrainian?

  As I crouched for a closer look, Bull and Dozer moved in to see what I was doing, both sticking their noses where I was trying to place my hands. I had seen Ukrainian written on the wall in the room the cleaners congregated in for their briefing last night. This looked the same. It was two lines of typed text on the upper lid which looked to be a manufacturer’s mark.