by steve higgs
‘Your phone?’ the man called after them, wondering what the hell was going on. He jammed a foot up against the right-hand door to stop it from closing and bent down to pick up the phone. As he turned it over and saw the screen his soul froze.
The girl had managed to snap the first selfie when the lights had gone out and there, between their heads and right next to him was the shape of a person. It was caught in motion and it was blurry, but it was undeniably the outline of the figure of a person in the lift with them when the lights were out. The lift pinged again, and the doors tried to close, shoving against his foot so that he had to increase the weight on it to keep it in place.
What was he seeing? He needed to show this to someone. The police? Or maybe the Ghostbusters? He could feel his hair standing on end. Staring at the screen on the phone, the lift pinged again and he realised he needed to move, go and find the two girls or something. He would send himself the photograph first though. He turned to get this shopping from the floor where he had placed it.
It was no longer there.
Charles de Gaulle Airport, Paris. Sunday, October 17th 1915hrs
A few hours after the incident in Chatham and completely oblivious to it I was boarding a plane home. I looked back at the last thirty-six hours. Like all weekend city breaks it had passed in a blur, leaving my memory trying to connect all that had happened into a coherent sequence. My date for the weekend was a man I knew almost nothing about but had arrested a few days ago on suspicion of murder and then arranged for his release less than twenty-four hours later. His name was Brett Barker. He owned the Barker Steel Mill in Dartford, Kent and was a single, attractive, athletic multi-millionaire. My name is Amanda Harper. I am a police officer working for Kent police, but I already quit that job a couple of weeks ago in favour of a career as a private investigator. That statement, however, fails to capture the truth of my new job. I think I will leave it at that for now though as this bit is about the ridiculously delicious hunk I am salivating about.
Brett had approached me a few days before I arrested him and expressed his desire to see me socially. He was quite charming, and he had a confident nature that bordered on being arrogant but never went that far. He had shown a touch of nervousness when he asked me to come to Paris for the weekend and that had been what had convinced me to go. Had he been certain I was going to say yes, then I would not have done.
We flew first class, the first time I had ever done that but clearly it was the only way he travelled anywhere. He had been intending to fly his helicopter, but the weather predictions had been ominous, and the plane was safer.
When we boarded the plane yesterday morning, I was acutely aware that I had not yet been on a date with him, or even kissed him, and now I was planning to spend the night away with him in the penthouse of the Ritz, in the centre of Paris. He was being a perfect gentleman and had not tried to so much as hold my hand, but all men are more or less the same, so I set some ground rules and explained that I would not be sleeping with him that night. He took the news very well as if that was entirely expected and thoughts of getting into my knickers could not have been further from his mind. He explained that he had booked the penthouse because it came with three separate bedrooms, each with an en-suite bathroom and that I would have complete privacy whenever I wanted it.
Halfway through the first evening, I had almost changed my mind about the sleeping arrangements though. I was being swept off my feet. Being with him was how I imagined it would be to be famous, but without all the unwanted attention. Everywhere we went, he was greeted like an old friend. We were given a private tour of the Louvre, we took a helicopter tour above Paris as the predicted storm had not come to pass, and had eaten at the fanciest restaurants I had ever seen, let alone been in. Obviously, he would not let me pay for anything. After dinner, I had most of a bottle of champagne in me and I was starting to wonder what he looked like naked.
I don't make a habit of one-night stands, in fact, I abhor them and have only had two in my life, many years ago and best forgotten. This would not be a one-night stand though, I told myself, as I was planning to see him again and again and again if there were any more dates like this to be had. Instead, this would be having sex on the first date; something else I advocated against, but boy was he looking tempting now.
As we got in the lift to go up to the top floor, I slid my hand into his. It was the first time we had touched apart from when he charmingly offered me his hand to get out of the Rolls Royce we were travelling around Paris in. As the lift doors closed and we were thankfully alone, I turned into him, looped my left hand behind his head and pulled him down into a kiss. I had been just very slightly concerned that he was gay because he had not made a single suggestive comment or move on me and that had never happened before, but my worries were instantly alleviated as his tongue gently slipped between my lips and the kiss deepened.
We were still kissing ten seconds later when the lift binged to announce our arrival. Neither one of us broke the kiss though until someone coughed politely. The lift had stopped before it reached the penthouse suite level to let someone else on. As Brett opened his eyes and saw our audience, he quickly broke the kiss off and stood up straight again. In the doorway, were a cute older couple in their late seventies, dressed for dinner and holding hands. Brett said something to them in French that I could not follow and they both laughed.
The man waved a hand and replied but they made no attempt to get in the lift with us. The doors closed once more, and we continued up the last bit to the top floor.
Brett did not kiss me again but kept hold of my hand and led me to the room. As we crossed the elegantly styled lobby, he let go of my hand to retrieve the key from inside his jacket. Stood waiting beside him, I was having a tough mental debate with the sensible, rational version of myself that knew no good could come of sleeping with him this early in our relationship and the utter whore persona that wanted to whisper that the dress he had bought me to wear tonight really didn't allow for the person inside to also wear knickers. They were still arguing when he opened the door and let me inside and had come to no conclusion by the time the door was shut, and we were alone.
Thankfully, I suppose, Brett decided for me.
‘Goodnight, Amanda,’ he said, taking my hand and kissing it, ‘I have work to do but will see you in the morning.’
Dammit.
I bid him goodnight and went to my room, hurrying lest I lose my final drop of willpower and throw myself at him. I got undressed, hoping he might come and knock on my door, and fell asleep wondering if I should go and knock on his.
That was last night. I had woken alone with a dry mouth and a dull ache in my head from the overindulged champagne. I had showered and dressed and found Brett sitting at a desk in the main room inspecting a complicated spreadsheet of numbers. Steel futures he assured me. I did not know what that meant.
He ordered breakfast up to the room and took me on a boat down the Seine to a place that sold champagne by the case and then to a gallery and then to lunch. The day disappeared and before I knew it, we were back at the airport.
The flight back from Paris was seventy minutes; barely enough time to get comfortable in the enormous, luxury leather chair/beds in first class. The cabin crew offered me champagne again, which this time I declined. I did not have to drive when we landed as he had sent a car to collect me from my flat the previous day, but I had drunk enough last night and I felt that my evening might be best spent at the gym. Secretly I was worried/hopeful that I might be seen naked in the not too distant future and felt a need to get some squats and cardio in.
I had packed only a carry-on bag to avoid the baggage queue, but I now had a Louis Vuitton suitcase that he had supplied to make sure the Versace dress he bought me to wear to the Opera last night would get home safely. Somehow though the super-rich don't need to worry about carry-on limits, so I had not had to check my bag anyway.
I could get used to this.
He kisse
d me lightly goodbye outside the terminal where the same car and driver that had collected me was once again waiting to take me home.
Brett Barker. What a revelation. Gentleman, millionaire and… lover?
Maidstone Police Station. Monday, October 18th 0853hrs
The following morning, I awoke to an alarm which I had reluctantly set last night to go off at half past five and only hit the snooze button twice before I accepted the inevitable and forced myself out of bed. I had told myself that I needed to keep up my gym hours and I was actually feeling quite motivated as I swung my bag over my shoulder and left my flat.
At the gym in town though my motivation had abandoned me. The weights were mocking me from their stand. Why the hell are the small weights all pastel colours anyway? I don't need them to be pink for me to know that they are the ones I might be able to lift. I ignored their taunts and climbed onto an elliptical trainer where I spent twenty minutes sweating, grunting and groaning. Next to me had been an overweight man with a beard who had his machine on the minimum resistance setting and was barely even elevating his pulse. He had tried to talk to me – a regular gym hazard, so I had indicated my headphones and made out like I could not hear him. When I grew bored of the motion I switched to a treadmill. Pounding away, perspiration gathering in my bra, I daydreamed about Brett. His handsome face and light stubble grazing against the soft skin of my face, gently irritating the edge of my lips as we kissed. In my head, the kissing was getting more passionate, his hands were on my skin and digging into my hips. I could feel his… I let out a squeal as my right foot caught the stationary edge of the treadmill and I was flung off the machine to land painfully on the carpet tile.
Heads popped up around the gym. I was such a klutz. I had a friction burn to my left knee where it had hit the short carpet tile. Guys were rushing over to help me. I got up quickly, so I could wave them off. I was fine, just clumsy and distracted by thoughts of Brett getting naked for me.
By nine o’clock I was sitting at my desk with my bum cheeks already sore from the kettlebell squats I had forced myself to perform before I left the gym. My second cup of tea was cooling next to my mouse mat and I was idly working out how many hours I had left in the Police. I had quit my job a week ago, or slightly more than that now. I worked out that I had eleven shifts left. That was all. It would be ten by the time I finished today. I had been doing this job since I was twenty-one. What had I got out of it? I wanted to say not a lot, but I suppose the honest answer was that I had learned lots of life skills and I felt ready for my next job.
My next job, of course, was working with Tempest Michaels at the Blue Moon Investigation Agency. It had been my idea. I had approached him for the job rather than responding to a job advert as there was no advertised post. I couldn't work out what to make of Tempest, or how I felt about him. It was all fairly moot now as I was semi-officially dating Brett and quite happy about it, but I could not deny the fleeting interest. Tempest was good looking. Not as good looking at Brett but few were. He was polite, funny and engaging and I found that I liked spending time with him. I had thought he was single but then went to his house early one morning to find a woman there who had clearly spent the night. He was attracted to me, he had let that slip, but had failed to make any kind of move. Anyway, we were both seeing other people it seemed.
Working at an investigation agency probably sounds quite glamourous, evoking images of Sam Spade and black and white movies where the lady detective is resourceful and tough as nails while wearing silk stockings. Well, the reality is a little different and most especially at the Blue Moon Investigation Agency where what we investigate is paranormal crimes. That sounds stupid, doesn't it? Tempest came to it by accident. There was a mess up with his first business advert and suddenly he had clients calling with crazy cases where they believed they were being targeted by a witch or haunted by a ghost or whatever. He solved each case by finding the perfectly rational explanation for the situation they were experiencing and got to charge them for it. You may think it sounds like he is conning the people involved, but they are queuing up and begging him to take their cases.
‘Hey, girl. Where have you been all weekend? I sent you messages and snapchats and you didn't reply to any of them. And I know you read them because the iPhone told me,' the voice was coming from Patience Woods, a fellow police officer who was just arriving to sit at the desk next to mine. She was late. Again. We had been friends for about five years since she transferred to Maidstone from Chatham. She was currently stood with her arms crossed and was glaring down at me.
She had a good glare.
Patience is a plus size girl with boobs bigger than my head and a whole lot of junk in her trunk. Her default setting was loud, which right now meant that eighty percent of the office could hear her and were subsequently covering the mouthpiece of their headsets, so the person at the other end would not also hear her. She has more attitude than anyone I have ever met and did not care what anyone thought about her or it.
She dropped a three-pack of Krispy Kreme doughnuts on her desk and lowered herself into the chair. There was only one left in the pack, her lips were glistening with powdered sugar and as I watched, the last bite of dough-nut number two went into her mouth. She didn't break eye contact once. I felt a bead of sweat roll onto my collar.
‘Good morning, Patience. How are you?’
‘Don't you try that Disney Princess, white girl, butter wouldn't melt rubbish with me. Where the heck have you been?'
‘I was in Paris.’ There was no point in avoiding the conversation. She would get it out of me soon enough.
‘Paris? What’s in Paris?’ she asked.
‘Well, there is the Louvre, the Arc de Triumph, several…’
‘Nuh-uh. You know what I meant. I sat next to you all last week and you never once mentioned that you were going to Paris for the weekend. So, something changed.
‘I was on a date,’ I conceded.
‘A date?’
‘Yes.’
‘In Paris?’
‘Yes.’
‘With a man?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, you better start spillin', girl. I need to hear all about your shag-fest weekend,' Patience instructed while taking a gulp of coffee and reaching for her final breakfast dough-nut.
I took a sip of my tea and from behind my mug quietly admitted that there had been no sex. Patience's eyes nearly popped out of her head with shock and I knew I was in for a grilling. Thankfully, at the same moment, Sergeant Butterworth looked up from his desk.
‘Do you mind, Patience?’ asked Sergeant Butterworth, ‘Some of us are trying to work. I believe that if you turn on your computer there will be work for you to do also.’
She fixed him with a look, her eyes bugging out at him like she could not believe that he had the audacity to interrupt her conversation, ‘Excuse me? Did you just interrupt me? Do you have no manners at all?’ Sergeant Butterworth was now out of his chair and coming across the office.
‘Patience, I need you to do some work,’ he said as he approached her work area, ‘I shouldn’t have to have a fight with you every day just to get you to do your job.’
Patience leaned forward a little in her chair and indicated with her head that he should come closer. He came forward another step and leaned down.
Patience hissed, ‘We are having a very private and personal conversation about Amanda’s vagina. Would you like to pull up your chair and join the conversation? Do you feel that you and your vagina can give us some insight as well?’
His face turned purple and he opened his mouth to respond but Patience wasn’t done yet.
‘It's hard for us girls here, surrounded by dicks all day. Sometimes we need lady chats and we shouldn't have to feel bad about that. I should be able to talk about my period and the awful cramps I'm getting any time I like without being made to feel bad about it. If you got a problem with that maybe I should talk to HR.'
As Sergeant Butterworth skul
ked angrily back to his desk Patience chuckled to herself, ‘See, girl? All you have to say is period or vagina and men run away terrified. Now, let’s get back to your broken vagina.’
‘Patience, my vagina isn’t broken,’ I replied, my voice distinctly more hushed than hers.
‘The hell it isn't. Why else would you spend a weekend in Paris, on a date and get no dick?'
‘I spent a pleasant weekend with a gentleman, Patience. Such men still exist.’
‘Oh. So, he’s gay then?’
‘No… At least I am pretty sure he is straight. There was plenty of passionate kissing and there was something very hard digging into my hip while we did it.’
‘Hold on. You spent a weekend in Paris in the same hotel room and you did not have sex. How do you manage that?’
‘We had separate bedrooms,’ I answered.
‘You had… hold on, what kind of hotel room has more than one bedroom?’ Patience was staring at me now, her mouth a quizzical hole in her face.
‘Um. The penthouse,’ I said quietly.
‘The penthouse!' she shrieked, ‘Oh, my God! Who were you with?' Everyone in the office turned to look at us. Sergeant Butterworth's head looked like it was about to explode
‘Do you remember I told you about Brett Barker?' She immediately turned to her computer screen, booted it into life and typed his name into a search engine. ‘Well, he asked me to go to Paris with him, so I went.' As I finished speaking his face appeared on her screen.
‘Babe. Your new dick is rich. And when I say rich, I mean Kanye West style rich.' The picture on her screen was a good one that showed just how handsome Brett really was. ‘Girl, that man in fine. How did you not get stuck in the dicksand this weekend?'