by steve higgs
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 ticket.
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 o
f 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 the 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.
‘I will confess I have not the slightest notion what might be happening here. Whether the ghosts have even been seen by anyone or are just a daft, wild rumour. I do plan to find out though. I am offering my services free of charge. This will all be at my own expense. All I ask is that I am granted free passage to go where I may.'
‘I’m afraid I cannot allow that.’ He spun away from me to face the wall again, his fingers steepled in front of his face and his lips pressed to them. ‘The head of security would never allow it, quite rightly I am sure, but more importantly, I don’t want you to catch the ghosts. They are a massive tourist attraction and we don’t even need to do anything.’
I cocked my head slightly and waited for him to continue. ‘Attendance is up twenty-four percent since rumours of ghosts here started. It has only been a few weeks and we are suffering slightly because almost half the night shift cleaning staff and many of the security detail have quit in fright, but the entrance fee has never generated more revenue.' He spun back to face me again. ‘No, I'm afraid the investigation will have to be left to the police, Mr. Michaels. I have no doubt you mean well, you may even be a capable detective, but I cannot have an amateur running about the Dockyard, going where he pleases and interrupting our business.'
I fixed him with a serious look. ‘Mr. Jordan, the police will perform a cursory investigation but will be distracted by bigger crimes. The likelihood of my father's attacker being identified is slim unless you have a person dedicated to discovering the truth. Don't you want to know what motivated the attack?'
‘Perhaps it was random.’ He replied.
I cocked my head. ‘My father was found in a bin.’
‘Maybe the attacker panicked. Maybe he wasn't attacked at all and it was an accident. The point, Mr. Michaels, is that I cannot permit you to poke around while you try to uncover what you deem to be the truth.'
I nodded. Regretfully, I had to acknowledge that I had been expecting his response. My ideal scenario was for the Dockyard to hire me to investigate their ghosts, for in so doing I would uncover what had happened to my father. It was not to be though, and I believed any further argument to be futile.
I stood up and gathered my bag. ‘Mr. Jordan, thank you for your time.'
We shook hands once more, he bid me a good day and wished my father a speedy recovery. Then, as if by magic, Andriy opened the door behind me to let me out. I had to wonder if he listened at the door. As I left the room, I saw a clock on the wall opposite Alex’s desk. It had been behind me the whole time, placed as it was so that Alex need only look up from his desk to see the time. It stood out in the office because in striking contrast to every other item in the room, it was modern. A glass and chrome thing. Then I was out of the door and going through Andriy’s outer office.
Walking back down the long corridor that would get me out of the building and out of the Dockyard, I was forming a plan in my head. My first shot had not achieved the result I wanted, but my course was not to be swayed.
I had a case to solve and Mr. Jordan was going to know nothing about my actions until I presented him with the solution.
Big Ben. Monday, November 21st 1115hrs
I knocked on Big Ben’s door. He lives in a penthouse suite in a private gated complex that borders the river Medway as it runs through the centre of Maidstone. His place looks out over the river itself, but the view wasn’t anything to get excited about. On the other side of the river was more apartments and beyond that yet more apartments. It passed as high-end for Maidstone though.
The security guy managing traffic in and out of the complex knew me well enough to wave me through, plus my bright red Porsche was easy to spot and remember.
There was noise inside, voices that were clearly not Big Ben's and I wondered what kind of debauched orgy might be going on behind the closed door. Wondering was all I did. I certainly didn't want to
find out. I had already rung the bell though and could hear someone approaching from the other side of the door.
I heard the lock slide back moments before Big Ben’s big beaming head appeared around the door.
‘Hey, buddy.’ He said as he opened the door. ‘Was I supposed to be expecting you?’
I followed him in and closed the door behind me. ‘Not at all. This is an unplanned visit. I need your help, mate.’ Big Ben was naked from the waist up and wore a pair of loose-fitting track pants on his legs with no socks or shoes. He had underfloor heating though and the apartment was warm.
He led me through from the lobby to the main living area where there were four scantily-clad but still technically clothed ladies watching daytime TV.
One of them turned to see who it was and smiled. I said, ‘Good morning.’ But her response was to turn back to watching whatever mundane program they were engrossed in.
Big Ben picked up a mug of coffee as he folded himself into one of his sumptuous white leather chairs. ‘Coffee?’ He asked.
‘Sure.’
He turned his head slightly to one side to call across the room. ‘Brunilda. Be a love and make some coffee.’
‘Ja, sweetie.' A brunette with long flowing locks and nothing on but sports underwear from Pink said as she stood up. ‘Darf Ich fur sie etwas anderes tun?' She asked as she went by. My knowledge of German was sufficient to know that all she had asked was if she could do anything else for him, but the voice she used to ask it would have given an erection to a corpse.
‘Nein, danke.' He replied and kissed her arm where she had draped it around him. She skipped off into the kitchen to make me a beverage.
‘What’s it like being Hugh Hefner’s better-looking prodigy?’ I asked enviously.
He grinned at me and stretched in place. ‘Friggin' brilliant.'