Blue Moon Investigations Ten Book Bundle

by steve higgs

  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 be
ach 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 to 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.

  It might be nothing, but I was going to check it out anyway. Resolving to pick it up and take it to the car must have been a thought I was projecting though because Bull instantly lifted his back leg and widdled on the nearest corner of the box. He even locked eyes with me when he did it before trotting off content in a job well done.

  I muttered to myself, but grasped the box anyway, taking care to avoid the freshly damp bit where he had peed. As I lifted though, I discovered that the glue on top might have retained its integrity but the glue on the bottom had not. The box lifted to a height of about six inches before the flaps beneath yielded and the contents spilled all over the beach.

  I allowed myself a pointless display of angry, ironic defeat until the paper the box had contained began blowing across the beach. Then the dogs and I played a great game where I tried to grab the paper to stop it littering the area while they ran around excited by my jerky movements trying to bite my hands and trip me. Some of the paper went into the water and was lost but I was able to retrieve/rescue ninety-nine percent of it. Over half had stayed where it was because it was damp and stuck together. The half that was not told me that the box hadn’t been in the water long.

  With an armful of paper, I snagged the now deflated box with one hand to go back to the car. I stopped though, looking down at my hand in horror. The part of the box I had grabbed was the exact spot Bull had relieved himself on. It was still warm.

  Perfect.

  On my way to Cedric Tilsley’s house, I dropped the box and paper into the boot of my car and put the dogs on their leads. We were walking through a village which meant there would be cats and the dogs would not only cause havoc if they saw one but would attempt to chase it and get lost.

  Cedric lived at number two Pearson’s Lane. I knew the lane itself lay perpendicular to the main street that bordered the river and it was easy to find using the map in my head. It was a short, stubby street that terminated less than fifty yards after it started when the land began to slope sharply upwards. There were three houses on each side of the lane, all good-sized Victorian detached places. His was on the right in the middle, a bright white, double-fronted place with sash windows and a chimney gently emitting smoke in the middle of the roof.

  As I knocked on the door, I hoped the smoke meant he was in. A dog barked somewhere deep inside the house, the sound getting closer as it bounded toward the door. In return Bull and Dozer began barking their response. I couldn’t tell what the three dogs were trying to communicate but it sounded angry and aggressive.

  The dog on the other side sounded larger than my two, but it would be fair to say the odds of that were high. I had eaten cheese sandwiches that were bigger than my dogs.

  I retreated a pace to stand behind the gate as a shadow moving toward the door preceded it opening. A playful, excited Dalmatian attempted to bound out, barely held in check by its owner Cedric. Cedric looked just like his photograph. He might even have been wearing the same clothes. His face was open and friendly, almost smiling and might well have been were he not struggling to control his exuberant dog.

  I had to hush my own dogs, so I could speak. ‘Good morning. My name is Tempest Michaels.’ I offered him my card. ‘I am looking into some events at the Royal Dockyard and hoped you might be willing to answer a few questions for me.’

  He eyed me suspiciously. ‘What sort of questions?’

  ‘My father worked there as one of the guides. He was attacked recently while looking into strange noises coming from the rigging room. Lots of the staff have been scared away by the ghosts that have been reported there.’ He looked at my card again, understanding the connection now. ‘You are the only person whose departure in recent months wasn’t voluntary. Do you mind if I pick your brains a little?’

  He nodded his understanding. ‘Who is your father?’

  ‘Michael Michaels. I’m…’

  ‘Tempest Michaels.’ He supplied. ‘You gave me your name already.’ He smiled pleasantly. ‘Please come in.’ He remembered his exuberant dog as it leaped about again, trying to break free of his grip on its collar. ‘I’ll, err. Just give me a moment, won’t you?’

  He retreated into the house, dragging/coaxing the bouncing Dalmatian as he we
nt. The house had a long corridor splitting it in two down the middle. He went all the way along it before turning to the right, returning just a few seconds later without the dog.

  He grinned in a congenial way and beckoned me to join him. As I opened the gate, Bull and Dozer shoved their way through and strained at the leads to get into the house. I was going into another person’s home, a person that was generous enough to let me bring the dogs in, so they were staying on their leads and under control until he suggested I do otherwise.

  Ahead of me, Cedric was holding open a door that led into a study. It was an impressive room, filled floor to ceiling with books, models in glass cases, artefacts that appeared to be antiques taken from ancient warships and even some aged looking oil paintings. All of it was naval themed.

  He had a desk with a wheeled office chair against one wall and two very old, but very solid looking three-legged stools in a corner.

  ‘You said you had questions for me Mr Michaels. What is it that you would like to know?’ He was sitting at the desk but had turned the chair to face into the room. He indicated I should take a seat on one of the stools.

  The dogs pulled against their leads but recognised that I was not going to let them explore so curled into balls and lay down to sleep as I sat. Placing my bag on the carpet next to the stool and trapping the dogs leads under my foot, I removed my trusty notebook and pen. ‘Can I start with some basics? How long have you worked at the Dockyard, what your role there was?’

  ‘I was a curator, Mr. Michaels. I studied history at Bristol in the seventies which led me to a job in the library at Eton. It was then that I developed a passion for British Naval history. When it was announced that the Dockyard in Chatham was to be converted into an historic tourist attraction I applied for a position. I was promoted to curator three years later and have held that position ever since.’

  ‘I believe you were recently dismissed. Can you tell me how that came about, please?’ His face clouded as I asked the question. Unsurprisingly, it was a sensitive subject.