by steve higgs
He has an assistant in the shop who goes by the name Poison. Her real name is Ivy Wong, she is nineteen years old, super-hot and believes I saved her life when I blundered blindly into a serial killer just as he was about to bite out her throat a few days ago. Poison had kissed me with great passion a day or so before, and then immediately after that incident and had made it very clear that I was to use her as my sex toy whenever I wanted to. While this seemed like an offer I should not refuse, the age gap bothered me, and I was already drawn to other women. For several days I had tussled with the idea of just succumbing to her advances, but the decision to pursue Hayley dictated that I had to say no to Poison. At least for now. The two ladies worked less than fifty metres from each other and my life was complex enough without trying to sleep with two ladies at the same time.
An unpleasant task ahead of me, I headed to the bookshop to speak with Poison and somehow let her down gently. On my way, I wondered if she had ever had a man tell her no before. Would she cry? Would she kick me in the nuts? Neither eventuality was palatable, but before I could formulate how to phrase my thoughts on the matter I was at the building that housed the shop and heading up the narrow stairs that led to it.
Poison was behind the counter reading a book. There were no customers in the shop and she smiled at me as I came through the door.
‘Hi, Tempest.’ She beamed.
‘Good morning, Poison. All alone up here?’
‘Frank is out at an auction, some rare book he wants.’ She moved away from the counter and came towards me. ‘It does mean we have some privacy though.’
‘That is what I came here to discuss actually.' I said, keeping my tone flat. ‘I cannot give you want you want I'm afraid.' I had to get the words out before the sexlicious strumpet coming towards me closed the distance, got her hands on me and made me forget the purpose of my visit. She came to rest just inches from me and tilted her head up to meet my gaze.
‘What do you mean, Tempest?’ she asked, disappointment in her voice.
‘I cannot be in a relationship with you.’
‘Why ever not?’ she asked.
‘For several reasons.' I answered and then slumped against a bookcase as I tried to arrange my thoughts into a coherent reason that would make sense to her. ‘Most of which are confusing even to me. Our age difference bothers me, I guess that is the biggest reason. I am old enough to be your father.'
‘My father is fifty-six, Tempest and therefore old enough to be your father. And I am not a little girl. Do I look like a little girl?' She pushed her shoulders back as she said it which inevitably pushed her boobs out.
‘No, you most assuredly do not. But the age gap is still there, and I cannot get away from it. But beyond that, I am interested in someone else.' I realised as I said it that I meant Amanda and not Hayley. There were other reasons why I should not become involved with Poison such as she worked for Frank and I felt there it would be poor form to fool around with his employee. It would be fooling around too I acknowledged. Sex with Poison would most likely be incredible, her body suggested it would be, but I could not envisage a relationship forming afterward.
‘So, Mr. Michaels.' Poison started, taking her time over what she had to say. ‘I turn twenty in a few weeks and will no longer be a teenager. The age gap will remain the same but the concern you have should diminish as I age, and it becomes less significant.' She took my right hand in both of hers. ‘So here is the deal. I will leave you alone for now so that you can let your current love interest play its course. I am not going anywhere though. I owe you my life.' I opened my mouth to speak but she silenced me with a hand to my mouth. ‘I do, Tempest. Despite your protestations and I plan to repay you. You can have me anytime you want me. Call me, come find me, send a note for me. Whatever you choose to do, when you want me I will be your plaything.'
The voice from my pants was going nuts but I could not think of anything to say. I worried that I might have dribbled a bit but also worried that the tightening sensation coming from below my belt was going to be visible to her and that she might think it was there as a demonstration of wilful intent on my behalf. It was entirely involuntary. A chap simply cannot listen to an attractive lady tell him to get it here and not have his body react.
Poison sighed, reached up to put her hands behind my head and kissed me lightly on the lips. For a moment, I thought she was going to try to deepen the kiss, but she pulled away and took a step back.
‘I should go.’ I said, thankful that she hadn’t noticed the uncomfortable bulge in my trousers.
‘I’ll see you soon enough, Tempest. You might want to take care of that before you go out in the street.’ she said nodding her head at my groin.
Bugger.
Back at the office a few minutes later, everything south of my belt was back to normal and calm. Amanda was sat behind my desk using the computer. She looked up as I came in.
‘We should go.’ I said, ‘We have an hour to get to Dartford but need to park and get through reception at the Mill etcetera, and who knows what traffic might be doing.’
‘Yes. Time to go.’ She picked up her handbag, grabbed her phone from the desk where it had been sat next to the mouse and stood up. ‘You get some weird emails, Tempest.’
‘Yes, I do.’
Barker Mill with Brett Barker. Friday, 8th October 1250hrs
The drive to Dartford had been uneventful. We were once again tucked into the close confines of my little, red Porsche Boxster but it only took twenty-three minutes to get to the Mill. On the way, she had asked me more about how I thought she and I would operate together, whether we would take separate cases or work on singular cases together. I had expressed that we should let the workload and the nature of each case dictate how we needed to operate. Some cases would be simple and could be dealt with by either one of us. Other cases would require a lot of research, such as the death of Mr. Barker and we would pull together to try to solve them.
Amanda had read through the day’s emails. It was the first time she had seen them, although I had probably described some of them to her before. She seemed a little surprised at the stupidity of some of our potential clients.
Now at the Mill again, I parked closer to the reception entrance than I had the day before. The sky was overcast, robbing us of our shadows and it threatened to rain.
The same two ladies were on reception. They had us sign in as guests and wait for someone to come down from the main office to collect us. The clock on the wall in reception claimed it was 1247hrs. It was a few minutes late, my watch assured me it was more accurately 1253hrs. Since we were expected at 1300hrs sharp, I expected Mr. Barker to be running on time and I was not disappointed. An attractive young lady in a short-skirted business suit came to collect us at 1255hrs (according to my watch, not the clock on the wall).
She did not bother to introduce herself, she simply said, ‘Mr. Barker is expecting you now.' She checked to see that we were getting up to follow her and led the way back to the office where I had been yesterday. As we crossed the yard outside, sticking strictly to the yellow safety path, the first few spots of rain began to fall. They changed the tarmac from dark grey to a glistening black in tiny circles as each one landed. Soon enough they would begin to join up.
The door to Brett Barker’s office was closed, the young lady knocked, paused and opened it. The door swung wide as she stepped inside and out of the way to reveal directly in front of us the new owner of Barker Mill. He was already standing up and coming around the desk to greet us. I gave him some points for this as I had wondered if he would remain sat imperiously behind it.
He crossed the room, buttoning his jacket as he came, but he had not actually looked at us until right then. His face, which was ridiculously handsome, froze momentarily as he saw Amanda. I suppose he was expecting just a chap and had he checked out the Blue Moon investigation Agency website he would have found just me listed. So, here I was accompanied by the strikingly delicious blonde and it had ca
ught him briefly off guard.
He recovered quickly though, a warm smile spreading across his face.
‘Good afternoon.’ he said, his educated accent everything I had expected it to be. Not that it offended me in any way, I found it pleasing to listen to people enunciate their words correctly. ‘Tempest Michaels, of course.’ he said, shaking my hand with a firm, manly grip. ‘And this is?’
‘Amanda Harper.' Amanda said, offering her hand to be shaken.
We had all met in the centre of the room in front of the large desk that dominated it. The young lady that had led us up here had quietly closed the door behind us and slipped out. Brett Barker had Amanda’s hand in both of his and was staring into her eyes. He was still smiling his best smile and kept glancing to me and then back to stare at Amanda. He appeared to catch himself in the act before it became odd and let her hand go.
‘Please take a seat.’ he said looking directly at Amanda. ‘Each of you.’ he concluded, remembering me.
We both sat in large oak chairs that were positioned to face the desk obliquely from the right while Brett went back around the desk to his chair. He picked up a red stress ball as he went.
‘So, I believe my late Grandfather’s wife has employed you to investigate whether he was killed by the Phantom or indeed died of natural causes like the coroner says.’
Amanda stayed quiet, so I could field the question and when I spoke he finally turned his gaze towards me. ‘Do you believe your Grandfather died of natural causes?' I wanted to see how he reacted to a direct question about the death. It was entirely possible that he was guilty but equally likely that he was not. Would he give us some indication?
‘Of course, I do.' he snapped. ‘The old fool had a terrible heart, was way past retirement age, worked too many hours, and refused to let me take over the operation so that he could have an easier life.'
‘Why?’ I asked getting the quizzical face I wanted as Brett waited for me to expand my question. ‘Why did he refuse to hand over power to you?’ This was a harsh question which I hoped would expose some raw emotion and frustration.
I poised my pen, ready to write while he glanced between Amanda and me looking a little uncomfortable. Was he trying to decide how to answer? Probably.
‘Mr. Michaels, I am not sure what Margaret might have told you, but I am under no obligation to answer any of your questions. I agreed to this meeting largely to indulge my curiosity. She has not spoken the words directly to me, however, it is my assumption that she believes I am the one that has somehow convinced him to die of natural causes.'
Amanda and I stayed quiet. He was talking. Despite saying that he did not feel he needed to answer our questions he suddenly felt like sharing and the longer he talked the more he would tell us.
‘Let me state for the record that I did not kill my Grandfather.’
‘Where were you on the night that he died?’ I asked.
‘I refer you back to my previous statement about having no obligation to answer any questions.’
‘No alibi.’ I said aloud as I wrote on my pad.
‘Why would I need an alibi?’ he chuckled, his brow wrinkling in a display designed to indicate the concept was preposterous.
‘What is your relationship with Margaret like?’
Brett drummed his fingers on the desk a few times while he stared out of the window. ‘Alright. I'll tell you what, Mr. Michaels. I will indulge you a few questions. It feels a bit like therapy. Margaret and I have never really got on. She is poorly qualified to be the financial director of any firm, let alone a multi-million-pound operation such as this. She gained her position through marriage and I have been vocal about her inappropriate employment for years. We live in the same house, yet rarely see each other and we manage to remain professionally civil.'
‘Will she maintain her position now?’ I asked.
‘Do you mean, will I force her out now that I am in charge? No. I would not stoop so low. Besides she retains a small portion of shares in the business that were gifted to her years ago by my grandfather. Unless she opts to sell them or gets locked up I am stuck with her.'
‘What was that about being locked up?’ Amanda asked.
‘An old clause in the Barker Mill share ownership contract. The shares pass from heir to heir. Only ten percent can ever be sold, given or traded to anyone else and it must be someone from the Barker family that receives them. The only way for the heir to lose control of the shares, and thus the Mill itself, is to commit a crime and be incarcerated. The clause was written in at the behest of my great-great-grandfather when his son, my great-grandfather was found guilty of embezzling to support a gambling habit.'
‘You gave Owen Larkin a large payout after he was dismissed. Why is that?' Amanda asked, changing the subject.
‘Owen is innocent.’
‘You seem very sure.’
‘Sure enough.' he replied, fixing her with a smile.
‘Why is that?’ I asked.
Brett sighed and looked away from her again. ‘Owen and I have been working together for years now. I trust no one more than him. He is as invested in the future of the Mill as I am.’
‘So, how do you explain the components found in his car?’ I checked back through my note. ‘Crane safety lockouts. They sound like a vital piece of safety equipment.’
He switched his gaze from Amanda to me. ‘I don’t explain it. I have not the slightest idea who put those in Owen’s car and nor does Owen.’
I changed tack again. ‘The Mill has suffered a spate of bad luck accidents which some are claiming to be the work of the Phantom. Then your grandfather dies and a burnt handprint, the calling card of the Phantom, is found near his body. What do you think is going on?’
He considered this for a second looking directly at me. ‘Are you asking me if I think there is a phantom haunting my Mill? I don’t. I do however think that someone is deliberately breaking equipment. I have had to enforce a total system check before every piece of equipment is turned on. Productivity is down by almost forty percent.’
‘If someone is doing this, do you have a theory why?’
‘Not until I work out who. It could be a disgruntled employee, someone overlooked for promotion. If I overlook the burnt handprint it could all be a coincidence.' He seemed ruffled suddenly. Angry.
I nodded to Amanda to continue the questioning.
She checked her notes then looked up. ‘It has been claimed that your grandfather was considering someone else to succeed him as heir to the Mill. Why would he do that?’
‘My Grandfather and I did not agree on certain principles regarding how the Mill should be run, where its future lies and what we need to be doing to ensure the future prosperity of the Barker family.’ It felt like a rehearsed answer, but he had taken his time to deliver it as if he needed to think about what to say. Was the pause rehearsed also?
‘Are you not concerned that this makes you a suspect?’ I asked. Then I saw the trap coming.
‘A suspect in a natural death. Are you a fool man?' Brett was clever enough to have led me into the question and like a fool, I had swum after the bait. He turned his gaze firmly towards Amanda. ‘Do you have any more questions for me?’ he asked, smiling. He had essentially dismissed me.
Amanda and I conferred briefly but decided we did not have anything more at that time. We got up to leave but Brett then asked a question that surprised me.
‘What are your rates?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Your rates, Mr. Michaels. If I wished to engage your services to find the Phantom.' He was serious.
I was already stood, so while I was putting my notebook away I outlined what I charge but added on a healthy twenty percent just because I felt like it.
He nodded his understanding but left it at that.
A few minutes later Amanda and I were heading back to the car and out of the Mill.
Research at Home. Friday, 8th October 1443hrs
I dropped Amanda back at her
car and she took herself home. She had a shift this evening and was going to get a few hours of sleep first. I waved her goodbye and headed into my house. I did the usual routine with the dogs and made myself a cup of tea.
I had not yet read much of the phone-book-thick file I had been given on Brett Barker. My feeble attempt at scrutinising the documents last night had achieved very little before the sweet comfort of sleep had wound its soothing grip around me and pulled me down.
Now that I had met the man and instantly learned to thoroughly dislike him, I felt a renewed energy and vigour with which to attack the file.
I sat on the sofa with a pile of documents on my left side. I had a notepad and pen on my right. Planning to be thorough, I would work my way through the pile, transferring the read documents to the right where they would form a new, inverted pile to keep them in their original order. In the notepad, I would make inscriptions regarding anything I found noteworthy or anything I did not understand or wanted to research.
I picked up the first file from the top of the pile. It was a series of school reports from Eton. Quite what I might glean from his school days I could not fathom, but I opened it and started to read. I did not get more than a few words in though before I felt the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. I turned my head to the left where I found Bull standing with his front paws on top of the pile of documents. He did not bother to wag his tail and his expression, if one cared to translate it said, ‘I know that you know where the biscuits are, but I know where your shoes are so perhaps you should find the biscuits and I will not have to find your shoes.'
I glanced to my right. Dozer was stood on my notebook. A classic pincer movement. He tilted his head slightly to the side as I looked at him. His expression said, ‘Noms?’ He was less articulate than his brother.
A minute later, I was settling back into my seat and picking up the Eton school report once more. The dogs had devoured their biscuits and already taken themselves to bed.
