Blue Moon Investigations Ten Book Bundle

by steve higgs

  He nodded his head. ‘Fair enough.’

  I checked my watch again. ‘I need to get going actually. My dogs are at your house, so I have a round trip to perform before I can get to the venue.’

  ‘Okay, kid. Have fun. I should be out of here tomorrow. Maybe then I can help you at the Dockyard, be your inside man perhaps?’

  My instant reaction was that I didn’t want to involve him in what I considered to be a dangerous situation. I didn’t say that though. I hadn’t explained to him about the Ukrainians, not in any detail anyway, so I gave him a thumbs up. If they did let him out and mum didn’t put a ban on him leaving the house, then I would tackle it.

  Even though I could feel the time ticking away, I went back to the maternity ward to catch up with Rachael and the new baby. Enough time had passed that they had moved her out of the delivery room to a much nicer room where there was a proper bed for her and a TV and a crib thing for the tiny infant.

  I knocked on the door, waited and went in when I heard Rachael say, ‘Come in.’

  She was dressed in a hospital issue gown, robe and slippers and was laying on the bed. An empty tea cup was cooling on the night stand next to the bed while in her hands a plate showed the remaining crumbs of a recently devoured sandwich. The TV was on, some daytime soap I didn’t recognise, but Rachael was looking at the baby instead.

  ‘Have you named her?’ I asked.

  She shook her head. ‘I will wait until Chris arrives, but we have discussed it. I like Summer as a name. possibly Summer-Storm. Dad would like that.’

  She jolted my memory. ‘Dad’s awake.’ She looked up in surprise. ‘Sorry, I should have led with that. I didn’t know myself until I arrived at the ward. He is talking and sitting up and says he feels fine. He wants to come to the Dockyard with me to solve the case there.’

  ‘That sounds about right. The two of you are the same. Nothing is allowed to slow you down for long.’ I almost argued, she was right though, that was how I approached life.

  I checked my watch yet again. Rachael saw the motion. ‘Do you need to be somewhere?’ She asked.

  ‘Kind of. It’s Jagjit’s stag do today. He gets married this weekend and I am best man.’

  Her eyes widened then she started shooing motions. ‘Go, Tempest, get gone. I don’t need you here. I will join the baby shortly and have a nap. Go have fun.’

  ‘Okay.’ I said with some relief. I crossed the room to kiss her cheek then left the room and started hauling ass. I had less than seventy minutes before I was due at the venue and about seventy-five minutes of stuff to do first. I was supposed to be getting picked up so that I could leave my car at home, but couldn’t see any way of achieving that without making more people late.

  By the time I got to the car park I was jogging.

  Man stuff. Wednesday, November 23rd 1600hrs

  Getting across to my parent’s house to collect the dogs was easy enough, but by the time I tried to get from there to my house the schools had kicked out and the roads were clogged with mums in cars.

  Sitting in my car, I had watched the minutes tick away unable to do anything about it. When I finally got home, the walk I had wanted to give the dogs before dropping them off next door became an abridged run around the garden to make sure they were empty of waste fluids. They got a treat from the jar and a hug before I dropped them off at Mrs Comerforth’s for the third time that week. Then I had to run back into my house to grab a fast shower and a change of clothing.

  We would be driving adapted race cars for the next two hours so I used the thirty-minute drive to Brands Hatch race track as a warm up in my nippy, red Porsche. The fact that I made it in thirty minutes, testament to how fast I had driven as it should have taken closer to forty-five.

  At 1600hrs, I had been there less than a minute and was just coming into the bar where Jagjit, Big Ben and the others were gathered.

  The eleven chaps were already in their race suits, a one-piece leather outfit designed to make the wearer feel like a race car driver. A young chap asked me my size on the way in before scurrying away to fetch another one for me. Another gentleman, this one older and vaguely familiar, was addressing the chaps who were all seated in a single row in front of a lay out of the track. He was explaining how the afternoon would proceed and about racing lines and how to get the best out of the event.

  Then, just as I was about to take my seat, I saw him. Two in from the far left, sitting next to Kit was his friend Ian. The one that knew Jagjit but Kit couldn’t remember how.

  Well, I knew how. He had arrested him. And me. And Big Ben. And several other people I knew. It was Chief Inspector Ian Quinn.

  Now the comments about not being able to make friends in his job made sense. Kit looked to be early forties, which made the two men about the same age. Kit claimed they went to school together, although I hadn’t enquired whether he meant University or a younger period in their lives.

  This threw a curve ball into the day and I had to wonder how Jagjit felt about it. I would find out soon enough. For now, the chap standing in front and talking was in full-flow and had indicated for me to take a seat. All heads turned as his attention lifted from those seated, so I gave a quick wave of hello as I took a chair and tried really hard not to scowl at CI Quinn.

  Just then, the young man that had scurried away to find my race suit returned.

  As it turned out, Jagjit hadn’t even recognised Ian Quinn. They had been introduced only briefly and the subject of where he knew Jagjit from had not arisen.

  ‘He arrested you.’ Big Ben pointed out when I asked. ‘Or rather, he had you arrested.’

  Jagjit’s jaw had dropped. ‘Let’s all play nice now that we are here, shall we?’ My tone was aimed at Big Ben and demanded compliance. It was a well-established fact that I was the sensible one in the group. The one that would do the right thing and could be relied upon to be diplomatic. In the same way, Big Ben was labelled as the one most likely to take offence and push someone’s head through a wall.

  Big Ben muttered something that rhymed rather well with mucking runt but promised to be agreeable for the duration of the stag party. I crossed the room to speak with CI Quinn.

  ‘Ian, this is something of a surprise. When I emailed thebigchief@bossnet.com I had no idea the Ian I addressed it to would turn out to be you.’

  ‘I see. Am I to assume I am not welcome?’ He asked, his tone guarded.

  Kit, who was standing next to him looked quite taken aback. ‘What’s going on chaps?’ He asked. ‘Is there something I should know?’ He looked poised to step between us.

  I smiled as congenially as I could. ‘Not at all. Ian and I know each other through work and have never had the chance to socialise before.’

  ‘Yes.’ CI Quinn joined in, ‘Yes, we met through police business as Tempest here is a detective.’

  ‘Oh, I know.’ Said Kit. ‘Getting quite famous too. Jagjit is always telling us about your adventures.’ Kit was addressing me now so didn’t see the briefest sign of displeasure sweep across Ian’s face. To his credit Ian quelled it no sooner than it arose.

  He caught himself at that point, clapped his hands together loudly then raised them in the air. ‘What say you, chaps? A wager on the winner today?’ Our relationship had always been adversarial, but for now at least, we were going to tolerate each other and act as if we were nothing more than two chaps out to celebrate another man’s loss of singledom.

  I pulled out my wallet. ‘I say fifty pounds per man, winner gets the first round.’ I held aloft a crisp fifty pounds note, someone produced a clean pint glass and the notes started going into in. Everyone had come cash-heavy, ready for a night on the town. Having been first to support Ian, I moved away to let others get to the pint glass he was holding.

  Then I saw my mistake. Basic was behind me. Jagjit’s brothers were in banking and real estate, Big Ben had a huge inheritance, I was a successful business owner and Basic parked shopping trolleys at a local supermarket for a living.
As my cheeks warmed, I quickly crafted a lie I thought he would believe: That his mother had given me some money for him to spend.

  I went over to deliver my well-intended falsehood to find him pulling his wallet from his back pocket. It was a mangy-looking canvas thing with a Velcro strap that was stuck up with all manner of fluff. Before I could open my mouth, he lifted a crisp fifty pounds note of his own and walked by me to deposit it.

  ‘Hi, Tempest.’ He said in passing. Then, ‘I never had a fifty before. They look funny and they don’t really fit in my wallet.’

  He was right in that they were too large for many wallets. The Royal Mint’s odd habit of making notes increase in size along with value made the fifty almost ungainly in size. I worried he had just spent half his week’s wages.

  ‘Have you been saving for today?’ I asked, trying to work up to the lie about his mum giving me money.

  ‘No. I have lots of money now, Tempest.’

  Jagjit was within earshot. ‘Haven’t you heard?’ He asked as he turned to face us. ‘Basic is an entrepreneur.’

  I waited for the punchline, not wanting to say anything that might be offensive. When no one spoke, I gave up waiting and requested, ‘Do tell.’

  ‘I sell guitars.’ Said Basic.

  I couldn’t help the quizzical eyebrow from lifting. I had never once heard Basic talk about guitars or suggest at any point that he was even slightly musical. ‘Do you make them?’ I asked.

  In return, Basic looked at me like I was being particularly thick. ‘No, Tempest. The guitars don’t exist.’

  Now I was really confused.

  Jagjit laughed but came to the rescue. ‘Our good friend, Basic, discovered that he can sell air-guitars online.’

  ‘You have to be joking.’ I didn’t know what other response I could come up with.

  ‘Nope.’ Basic was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

  ‘Shall I tell the story?’ Jagjit asked Basic. When Basic nodded, he turned his attention back to me. The chap that had been giving instruction on the racing event when I walked in, was now calling us all to proceed to the track. As we walked, Jagjit started talking. ‘James,’ He used Basic’s real name for once, ‘filmed himself messing around playing air-guitar to an ACDC track a few weeks ago, just one of those random things you do when you are bored. He uploaded it to YouTube and as these things sometimes go, it started spreading. Then he came up with the idea of advertising signed copies of his air-guitar for sale via a well-known social media platform and linked that to the video feed.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ Asked Hilary because we were dawdling behind everyone else. ‘You are going to be last on the track.’

  ‘Never mind that. Listen to this.’ I said.

  Jagjit backtracked slightly to catch Hilary up on the story so far, then pressed on. ‘So, anyway. It was just a bit of a joke. Wasn’t it, Basic?’

  ‘S’right.’ He agreed.

  ‘But then they were actually selling. They are ninety-nine cents with a seventy percent profit margin and purchases are global.’

  ‘How many?’ I asked. ‘How many sales?’

  ‘Basic?’ Jagjit prompted.

  ‘Dunno.’ He replied.

  ‘Let’s just say it’s a lot and the sales graph is going up still.’

  I shook my head in awe. Maybe it took someone with Basic’s intelligence to come up with such an idea. I doubted it would even occur to me. ‘What’s next? Film yourself on a skateboard and sell the wicked airtime?’

  I had been joking but Basic was clearly giving the idea some serious thought.

  ‘Oi, Jizz weasels. Get in your cars. It’s time to race.’ Big Ben was always a delight. ‘Or in your cases, it’s time to lose like the snot-soaked, Justin Bieber t-shirt wearing, limp-wristed losers you are.’

  His goading got us moving. The cars were lined up like you would find in a Grand Prix race and each car had a co-driver that was there to guide us through how best to handle the car we would be racing. As I got to mine, deferring to Basic, Hilary and of course Jagjit so that mine was last on the grid, the cars at the front were already peeling away.

  The two-hour slot we had bought got us fifteen minutes of orientation, thirty minutes of instruction, thirty minutes of racing and thirty minutes of free drinks as we watched the action as filmed by a number of remote and manned cameras around the track. It wasn’t a cheap afternoon which would have been enough motivation for the chaps to want to make the most out of it, but the wager had ensured we were all chomping at the bit to get the race underway. Six-hundred pounds wouldn’t change anyone’s life, but it would look fat in anyone’s wallet.

  By 1700hrs, we had finished our practise laps, stretched our legs and taken on water. Now we were back in our cars and waiting to go. The cars had been arranged on the grid according to lap times recorded during our practise laps, just like they would on a Grand Prix. I was tenth somehow, which I had decided was due to my car being faulty. I drove a Porsche every day. Surely, I should be better at this than anyone. My disappointment was only slightly mollified by Big Ben sitting dead last. I put this down to the cars all being equal and him weighing fifty pounds more than anyone else. He also had to drive with his head on slightly sideways. His daft height and the full racing helmet for safety meant even scooching down in his seat didn’t really work.

  The bank of lights ahead of us turned from red to green resulting in the engine noise cranking up to the accompanying sound of wheels spinning and the twelve race cars blasted away from the grid.

  Stag Night. Wednesday, November 23rd 2051hrs

  My stomach was filled to capacity with dinner, but the steak the size of a box folder had absorbed some of the beer I had drunk just when I was starting to feel its effects. The food had been glorious, rich and decadent. It was a meal to remember and capped the afternoon off perfectly.

  The after-action review of the race was still going, there didn’t seem to be room for another topic of conversation. All twelve of us had dispensed with any form of transportation, along with any sense of sobriety, the moment we arrived in Rochester. My car was parked in its usual spot behind my office with the other cars piled in around it. There was a rather tenuous plan to fetch the cars early tomorrow morning so they would not cause a problem when Jane and Amanda arrived just before 0900hrs. Looking at the drinks now flowing through the group, I wasn’t sure anyone would make it back in time.

  It was a minor concern though, I had already sent them both a text to say I would reimburse any parking fee they needed to pay elsewhere, and Amanda had said she was working late and would not be in first thing.

  I shot my cuff to check my watch: 2051hrs. I needed the gents. Thirty seconds later, with Mr. Wriggly performing his less interesting function, I started worrying about the case. It was far from ideal that I had taken today off. Would they even let Big Ben and me back in for our cleaning shift tomorrow? Our absence today could not be helped, and we had both called in sick but the Dockyard business was not one that struck me as being concerned about employee’s rights given their willingness to hand out a beating for turning up.

  We would go back anyway and see what happened. If more extraordinary measures were called for, like breaking in because next time they denied us access completely, then so be it. I wasn’t worried about getting caught trespassing and arrested, the police would release us without charge once I could get a message to CI Quinn, however, I wasn’t sure they would bother handing us over if caught. They were capable, possibly even inclined toward murder. It was a concern. I wasn’t stopping though.

  On my way back to the bar I used my phone to call Joseph. The music in the bar was loud, but not so oppressive that conversation was impossible, but further into the bar, in the utility area I found myself in now, it was quite quiet. I ducked into an alcove when he came on the line.

  ‘Dobryj den.’ He answered, speaking Ukrainian to maintain his cover.

  ‘Joseph, it’s Tempest. Are you able to talk?’

  He
whispered quietly, ‘One moment.’ Then spoke at normal volume in Ukrainian again, most likely pretending the caller was his girlfriend or his mum or something. He could have been saying anything, the words were gibberish to my ears. ‘Yes, I can talk.’ He said after a few seconds.

  ‘I’m just checking in. How’s it going?’

  ‘No problems. I was immediately accepted and welcomed. I am quite the hit with the almost-all female cleaning crew in fact, although I will say there is an air of disappointment that someone called Big Ben is not here tonight. Is that your colleague?’

  I sighed. It was always all about Big Ben where the ladies were concerned. ‘Yes, that’s him.’

  ‘Well, there are several ladies here of varying ages that have plans for him, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Well, tell them he will be back tomorrow if you can do that without blowing your cover. What have they got you doing?’

  ‘I am emptying bins. According to Pasha, the lady in charge, the two useless, weak English goluboi’s, that’s Ukrainian for homosexuals, didn’t turn up today so someone else needed to do it. They paired me with an older man, but it was clearly a bit much for him, so I found him a warm place to rest and have got on with it by myself. I am poking around as I go.’

  Good. This was good. After his promise to find his way into the tunnels earlier today I had worried that my overly adventurous and confident new acquaintance might do something rash like ask where the bad guys were and then try to arrest them all. He was playing it cautious and sensible though.

  Tomorrow, with three of us there, we could make a concerted effort to find the landside tunnel entrance. Even though we had identified the river entrance, it appeared to be guarded. Big Ben and I could borrow some scuba gear and maybe get in undetected underwater to avoid being chased off by the boats. Not impossible, but also not simple either.

  ‘Roger. Stay safe. Let’s touch base in the morning and agree on a plan of action, yes?’