by steve higgs
Before he could annoy me any further, CI Quinn appeared through a different door in the wall to the right of the reception counter.
‘Mr. Michaels. I understand you want to see me. I do hope you are not going to waste my time.’
I offered him a hopeful expression. ‘I need no more than a few moments.’ He indicated back through the door and held it open for me to follow him. ‘Thank you.’ I called out loud enough for the desk officer to hear me.
The Chief Inspector was leading me to an office, but I started asking my question as the door to reception closed. ‘What do you know about Ukrainian gangs operating in the area?’
Rather than answering, he asked, ‘Why do you want to know about Ukrainian gangs?’
Quinn wasn’t going to give me anything without a reason. I gave him the full story. ‘My father works at the Royal Historic Dockyard. He was attacked and injured there recently.’ He nodded and murmured words of sympathy as one automatically does. I gave him a brief chance to do so before continuing. ‘He will be fine, but I am investigating what happened to him and have stumbled across something. I don’t know what yet, but there is something going on at the Dockyard. Something criminal.’
‘What makes you think that?’
I gave him a level stare. ‘Chief Inspector, in the short time you have known me, and bearing in mind that you loathe everything about me and seem determined to catch me out, when have I ever been wrong?’
He didn’t reply for a few seconds. He just held my gaze. ‘When have you ever been wrong.’ He repeated. ‘That’s all you have to go on? I should base the application of my resources on your ego?’
‘Quinn.’ I started, then paused while I decided whether I should keep going, give up and walk out, or go with my gut instinct and punch him in the ear. I sighed. ‘Quinn, yet again I am going to solve a case that you refuse to acknowledge until it is too late for you to be involved. I am not trying to do you a favour. I just want the people behind my father’s injury to be caught. If I am right about the gang thing, I may need your help.’
‘If you are right about the gang thing, you won’t live out the week.’ He assured me. ‘I wish you luck with your endeavours, pointless and foolish though they are. If you find any actual evidence, please let me know.’
‘I already have evidence, Quinn.’
He cocked his head quizzically. ‘Why not lead with that?’
‘I wanted to see if you would persist with your standard game of being an annoying tit.’ I gathered my bag from the floor and began to rise.
‘What evidence do you have?’ He asked to delay my exit.
I leaned across the table to get into his face. ‘One day, Quinn, you will work out that we are on the same side.’ I opened the door to let myself out.
‘The evidence?’
‘Missed your chance, Quinn.’ Having failed to get what I wanted from him, which was some information and perhaps a little assistance, I instead took the upper hand and left him feeling small. All that was left was to magnanimously waltz myself out of the police station, which I would have done a great job of if I hadn’t instantly taken a wrong turning and found myself in the toilets.
‘This way, Mr. Michaels.’ Called Chief Inspector Quinn while crooking a finger at me.
Silently seething, I let him show me the way out. Going down the steps that led back to the carpark, I checked my watch: 1612hrs. It was already dark out and it felt like a long day. I yawned. Heading back to the Dockyard later for several hours of detective work while I pretended to clean didn’t exactly appeal, but in addition to my desire to find dad’s attacker, I now needed to show Quinn that he was wrong.
I headed for home.
Tea and a Book. Tuesday, November 22nd 1640hrs
Ninety-nine percent of the preparation for Jagjit’s stag night had been arranged more than a week ago. Since he had given us a scant month between the engagement announcement and the wedding, there had been options we might have pursued that were simply not possible, however, I was content with the program of events in place. This afternoon I had gathered the attendees, less a couple of apologies, to go over final minutia.
It had been agreed that we would meet at the pub in the village since a good portion of us lived here, but I had been forced to change the time of the event to allow for my investigation at the Dockyard. I had to leave at 1930hrs to ensure I would get there on time but moving the meeting forward to 1800hrs had meant that a couple of the chaps working in London were not going to make it until we were about finished.
There was nothing to be done about it and everyone had assured me that they had taken time off tomorrow to accommodate the driving experience I knew Jagjit would love.
I checked my watch: 1640hrs. I had enough time to get myself some food and grab a shower before heading out. The dogs were well walked today, their trip to the Dockyard more than sufficient to exhaust their tiny legs. They would go to Mrs Comerforth next door before I went to the pub and would be quite happy to do so.
I had some pre-prepared meals in my freezer that I made in batches, days or even weeks in advance because it was generally easier to make a big pot. This evening’s meal of meatballs with a stack of veg was reheating in the oven while some wholemeal pasta boiled on the hob. I was sipping a mug of tea at the kitchen breakfast bar and reading through the book I had bought at the Dockyard yesterday morning. It was not a thick book and it had a lot of photographs in it, but the author claimed there were secret chambers beneath the dockyard that were dug after the Dutch invaded in 1667. They were then extended as the dockyard was extended.
While the author knew they were there, he had not seen them, was not able to describe them in any useful detail and, most unhelpfully, did not know where they connected with the surface. I was just going to have to get the map. It was a mission for tonight. I put the book down, disappointed that it didn’t provide me with the giant shortcut to the end of the case that I had childishly hoped for.
The dogs had taken themselves for a snooze on the sofa while I sat at the breakfast bar, only appearing in the kitchen when they heard me serve food to my plate. I shooed them away as they had already had their dinner and tucked into mine.
I continued reading the book, but it revealed nothing further of interest to the case. Learning about who had designed which building and what ships had been made in the Dockyard had no bearing on the appearance of ghosts now nor the motivation behind the attack on my father.
I set the book to one side as I cleared my plate, tidied up and went upstairs to get clean and change my clothing. While steam started to billow from the shower to fog the mirror, I inspected my body. I found that I constantly struggled with my weight. I could gain pounds just by thinking about eating a cheeseburger and had done exactly that through actually eating one (or two) on a break in Cornwall a month ago. My usual diet of vegetables and lean meat, pulses, wholegrains and lots of water kept me on the right path, but it had been a fight to lose the excess I had quickly gained when I decided to take a break and eat what I fancied.
I slapped my stomach and twisted in front of the mirror. It was far from perfect, but I could just about see my abs again through the thin layer of fat over the top of them and the love handles had gone. With a mental slap for my vanity I climbed into the shower.
Getting dressed in the bedroom, my phone beeped the arrival of a text. I leaned in to press a button. The text appeared on the screen. It was from Hilary, confirming the time we were meeting. I hadn’t seen him since the incident with the witch at my house two weeks ago. He had messaged twice to say he was not able to meet for a drink as we usually would on a Friday. Big Ben had commented that his wife had put him under house arrest, labelled him as pussy-whipped and suggested we might never see him again. I wondered if Big Ben had it right. He was coming tonight though and was attending the stag party tomorrow, so I would find time to ask him how things were going after the near break up with his wife.
I texted him a reply, finished get
ting dressed and headed downstairs. It was 1737hrs, time to drop the dogs off. For my own amusement, I jangled their collars and called them to the front door. As always, nothing happened. A causal guest might not even know I had dogs. I took two paces which brought me into the kitchen where I grabbed the handle of the fridge and yanked it open. I called them again but could already hear them moving as they tried desperately to untangle themselves and get off the sofa. I had watched them do this on many occasions. They would happily sleep next to, on top off or intertwined with each other, the shared body heat adding comfort to the reassurance that the other was nearby. When they then heard someone at the door, or, as in this instance, heard the fridge open, they exploded into motion but generally they each hindered the other in their struggle to get upright and moving.
Two seconds elapsed, and they arrived by my feet, skidding to a stop across the slate tile. ‘Hello, chaps.’ I said, grinning as I shut the fridge door again.
They knew they had been tricked and were less than pleased about it. I snagged them both before they could slink back to the sanctuary of the lounge though. With collars on we headed out the door, around the fence and up the path to Mrs Comerforth’s house. Once they saw where they were going their pace increased. They were predicting an evening of snoozing on her sofa instead of their own and couldn’t wait to get started.
The dogs strained to be released when they saw her shadow approach the frosted glass of her door, but I kept them in check until she had the door open.
‘Good evening, boys.’ She said in greeting, her eyes on them not me. ‘Are you ready for some Coronation Street?’ I doubted they cared whether she watched soap operas, documentaries or action films, their tails beat even harder now that she was addressing them.
‘Ready?’ I asked her.
‘Yes.’ She chuckled and mimed getting into a wrestler’s stance to deal with the threat of excited Dachshunds. They were gone a nanosecond after I unclipped their leads, accelerating from a standing start to maximum velocity before they reached her doorstep less than a yard ahead. Bull went to the right of her left leg, whipping between it and the doorframe, Dozer ran blindly through her skirt making the hem whoosh with his passage.
Mrs Comerforth was already turning to go, ‘I’ll pop them back in your house before I turn in, love.’
‘Thank you.’ I called after her. I got a final wave and the door was closed against the cold.
‘Pub o’clock then.’ I said to myself as I set off.
What about the Strippers? Tuesday, November 22nd 1830hrs
Basic, Big Ben and two of Jagjit’s four brothers were already in the pub when I arrived. Jagjit was the youngest of five boys and the only one yet to produce grandchildren for his parents. They had plenty from the older four boys and he said the pressure on him to meet this requirement seemed to have diminished in the recent couple of years. He was marrying a white girl, but I didn’t know, and wouldn’t ask, what that would mean in terms of his parent’s expectations.
All four brothers were coming to the stag do, however Rajesh and Vihann both worked in London and could not get back in time to meet this evening. I hadn’t enquired what they did although I believed they were both in banking or possibly real estate management. Jagjit had told me about them at some point but the information hadn’t stuck.
Big Ben saw me coming through the door, ‘Alright, maggot muncher?’ He asked in greeting. Always the charmer.
Arjun and Aditya waved from the bar where they were just being served. Arjun gesticulated that he would grab me a drink while he was at the bar.
‘Just a sparkling water, please. I have to drive later.’ He nodded and spoke to the Landlord.
‘Good evening, Ben, Basic.’ I approached the table they were sitting at. There were two other chaps there that I didn’t know. Jagjit had provided a list of persons to invite and indicated where he knew them from. Thus far all contact had been by email or phone as some of them had to travel and were staying overnight, hence the meeting this evening.
I introduced myself, but the chaps knew me already. As I wondered how, they introduced themselves as Kit Granger-Smith and Ross Jarrett. ‘We were in the office when you burst in and busted Mrs Barker.’ Ross said. They were friends of Jagjit from his job in Canary Wharf.
‘That was quite the show.’ Kit agreed. ‘Everyone still talks about it now.’
‘Is that good or bad?’ I asked.
‘Definitely good.’ Kit assured me. ‘You saved the firm a lot of trouble that day. It would have come out sooner or later that she was defrauding us.’
I wondered about that. Mrs Barker had done a pretty good job of framing her stepson for his grandfather’s murder. I had got lucky on that case. Had I missed a vital clue, she might have got away with it and never been caught. I thanked them anyway, both for their comments and for coming.
Arjun and Aditya took their seats. ‘Thanks.’ I said as Arjun handed me my water. ‘We are just waiting on Hilary.’ At that moment, the pub door opened behind us. Hilary came in grinning from ear to ear.
He said, ‘Evening, all.’ As he closed the door. ‘Sorry I’m late. I was… busy. I’ll just get a drink if that’s okay. I’ve worked up quite the thirst.’
Hilary was different. Big Ben saw it too. He was more confident, more buoyant, more everything perhaps.
At this time on a Wednesday evening we were the only people in the pub, the jukebox was silent, and Hilary would hear me from the bar eight feet away, so I started talking.
‘Chaps, thank you all for coming. Some of you have travelled farther than others of course, but we are all here to celebrate Jagjit passing from bachelorhood to the sanctity of marriage thus we have a duty to see him off in a suitable style.’
‘Strippers!’ Said Big Ben with some cheer and volume. The landlord looked up but didn’t comment.
I pressed on. ‘As you know, we are meeting at 1600hrs tomorrow afternoon at Brands Hatch for a driving experience. There will be cocktails served afterwards, not before, and there will be a race, so I suggest we all stay sober for that element. That will take us to 1800hrs.’
‘Strippers!’ Yelled Big Ben again.
‘Not strippers I’m afraid. There will be a coach waiting to take us to the Balmoral restaurant in Rochester.’ This drew a few whistles of appreciation. The Balmoral was a steak and lobster place that was fully booked for months. I had to bribe the Maître’ D heavily to get us a table at short notice. It would be worth it though. I had never eaten there but had read the reviews and knew it was frequented by local celebrities and the rich. It had appeared on several TV shows where top chefs struggled to find enough superlatives to match the location’s appeal.
‘Then strippers?’ asked Big Ben, his voice now starting to sound hopeful.
‘Yes, Big Ben. Then strippers.’ I replied exasperated.
‘Really?’ Thank goodness. I was starting to think you hadn’t arranged any.’
Around the table all the faces were looking at me. ‘Of course, I didn’t arrange any strippers, Ben. Strippers are the fantasy of teenage boys. When we have finished our dinner, there is the option of heading into Rochester where the mile-long High Street contains no less than twenty-seven pubs and bars. We shall toast Jagjit in a gentlemanly style.’
‘So, no strippers.’ Big Ben wanted to confirm.
‘No, Ben.’ Any ladies we meet will most likely be inclined to keep their clothes on.
‘Well, that sounds shit. Anyone else want to see some tits on our night out?’
There were some rumblings from around the table, but no one said, “Yes please”.
‘Honestly.’ Big Ben was shaking his head. ‘This is because you are worried I will just shag them all and leave you lot with nothing, isn’t it?’ His raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘I get it. I do. The likelihood of you pooftas getting any action when I am around is limited, but I’m not totally insensitive. On a chaps’ night out like this one, I would make sure there were some ladies along wi
th lower expectations that would be happy to settle for one of you. I’ll make a call now, just give me a minute.’ He had his phone out already and was scrolling through his contacts. ‘Strippers coming right up.’
I slapped his phone away to send it skittering across the table. ‘No strippers.’
He eyed me incredulously. ‘Somebody’s tired.’ It was all in jest, of course, a bit of banter because he loved to annoy me.
I had to finish the point though, just in case he brought a bus load of scantily clad ladies along anyway. ‘Ben, what is the attraction of strippers? Please explain, because so far as I understand it, they take their clothes off, hopefully in a sensual manner that a lady might as an intro to a night of sex, then they dance around a bit, gyrating and such, which one might also sometimes benefit from if the lady is so inclined right before the whole sex thing gets underway. Then, once one’s motor is running at full speed and the old blood is pumping, they pick their clothes up and go home. The sex thing they have been getting you very much ready for doesn’t happen. Why would we want strippers?’
‘Because, you dung trumpet, we are men out doing manly things. Without some women around to marvel at our magnificence, we might as well turn in our heterosexual badges and be done with it. The strippers aren’t there for us to look at.’ He looked around the table making eye contact with everyone in turn. ‘Although, to be fair, we probably will. However, in my experience the ladies will spend more time looking at us.’
Big Ben liked to forget that the rest of us look like normal, average men, not like an Adonis.
‘I don’t want strippers.’ Said Hilary. ‘Not just because Anthea wouldn’t approve, which she very much wouldn’t, but mostly because like Tempest said, I find them pointless.’
‘Pointless?’ Asked Big Ben. ‘They are female perfection personified. They are the epitome of everything that attracts men to women.’