by steve higgs
Struggling against tears once again I threw off the covers and headed to the bathroom chiding myself for wallowing in grief.
Bull did a perfectly good task of scaring the birds out of the garden by himself and trotted back to the house for his breakfast kibble. I let him in and he shot past me to find his bowl.
I had work to do today which would provide a welcome distraction from the hole in my heart and it would be nice to wrap up another case and get Mrs Sweeting-Brand off my back.
My own breakfast consisted of a spinach and mushroom omelette with sliced cold ham on the side and a glass of milk. The ingredients were store cupboard standards and I ate it several times a week in a bid to avoid carb and fat-loaded bacon or sausage toasted sandwiches which is what I really wanted.
Body fuelled up I settled Bull in his favourite spot on the sofa, patted his head and with an instruction to be a good dog left him there. I glanced back as I exited the room but he had already closed his eyes.
I parked the car back at Kent Predators and Prey Park at 0754hrs and climbed out into the cool September air. My right foot splashed into a puddle and I thanked myself for choosing the caterpillar boots this morning and not the Italian leather loafers.
The water dripped off my boot as I took my next step. There was only one other car in the car park which I felt safe to assume was Dr Bryson’s as it looked like crap and was still sporting a space saver tyre from the puncture. The car was a mid-grey Vauxhall Astra that had seen much better days. It was tired and dirty and most panels were either scratched or dented or both. The interior was likewise ruined and the parcel shelf was missing so I could see the punctured wheel lying among typical boot detritus. I also noticed that the car was open as it was an old model that still had the pop up knobs in the windows.
I checked the building and could see dim light from his office illuminating the foyer area but no other signs of life so I moved around to stand between his car and mine making my intentions less obvious. I slipped on a pair of contact gloves from my pocket and gently opened his door. I always kept some gloves in my pocket and had a box in the car just in case. They were great from making sure fingerprints were not left behind. It seemed that an alarm was highly unlikely although I reasoned that if it did go off I could have claimed to have knocked it or tripped a motion sensor.
The interior smelled musty and vaguely of aftershave, it reminded me of the smell my grandfather’s car use to have, old perhaps, yet somehow still manly. I was looking for the boot release which I spied on the driver’s side foot well. I cautiously bent down to operate it knowing that I could not explain accidently opening a car and then its boot very easily.
The boot popped audibly as if there was pressure pushing against it or it was perhaps out of alignment and had to be forced closed each time. I checked the building for movement and satisfied there was none I continued.
Quite what I expected to find I was unsure about, a nice big sign saying guilty would be nice, but before I could peer inside the now wide-open boot Barry spoke.
‘It’s not in there, Mr Michaels.’ I spun around startled, to find Dr Barry Bryson PhD stood no more than five feet away holding a shotgun tightly in both hands. It was pointed down at an angle rather than at me, but he was clenching it tight from the white showing on his knuckles and he looked stressed and upset.
Forcing myself to steady my breathing and heartrate I opened my mouth to respond and hoped that my voice would come out sounding calm. ‘What’s not in there, Barry?’ It had been a while since I had been threatened with a gun. However, it wasn’t really something that one got used to with practice and I didn’t like it.
‘The Big Foot suit of course. That is what you were looking for, isn’t it?’ he said it as a statement, both hands still on the gun. ‘I don’t keep it in the car, too much chance of someone finding it.’
It was an immediate admission of guilt that I had not had to prompt or trick out of him. A tiny bubble of jubilance over the forthcoming pay check died instantly in my chest as I remembered the shotgun. ‘Why, Barry? Why the dressing up and scaring people?’
‘Does it matter now? No one was supposed to get hurt, but they did and it was my fault and now I can’t eat or sleep or function.’ He looked miserable, worse than last time I saw him. Was he wracked by guilt? It seemed perfectly plausible, so then did that make him suicidal or homicidal? Dangerous either way with a shotgun in his hands.
‘How did you know?’
‘It was the footprint. The footprint was between the trees and it is autumn. There are fallen leaves everywhere. The only way you could have found that footprint was by clearing away the leaves and making it yourself.’
Just looking at the floor he nodded.
I shivered from the cool air I had not dressed for as I expected to be inside mostly. Barry was wearing a thick parker and heavy boots so he was probably warm enough. If he had been outside for long though his hands might be getting cold and thus his reactions might be slow. If he elected to kill me to cover his tracks all he had to do was raise the barrel and shoot, a range of motion that might take half a second; too little time for me to do anything. I took a half step forward and held my hands out to either side in a placating fashion. I focused on his eyes hoping I would see a decision there first.
Barry didn’t move but the shot gun twitched upwards slightly ‘Don’t move.’ he ordered.
‘Tell me what it was for, Barry.’ I tried. ‘If no one was supposed to get hurt then you will not be found guilty of murder. If it was an accident, then we can get this cleared up. No one else needs to get hurt here.’
Especially me.
I angled my feet so that I could better push off from my right foot and drive forward to meet him should he elect to attack but before I could consider another move he slumped his whole body. His shoulders dropped, and his hands appeared to get a foot closer to the floor. His eyes were staring blankly at nothing. He sagged for half a second and then in a single move he reversed the shotgun and swung the double barrels up towards his own head.
I still don’t remember consciously deciding to move but I crashed into him as the shotgun went off, my left hand instantly hot where I had grabbed the barrel. My left shoulder met with his chest and we pitched over into the mud as one.
I landed with my shoulder in his rib cage and heard the breath whoosh out of him, left hand on the weapon I whipped my right elbow around to connect with his head but missed and struck his throat instead. He went limp beneath me as any fight he may have had left him. I yanked the gun from his grip and rolled onto my knees next to him.
Wonderful adrenalin washed through my system making me shake and feel sick. Barry was heaving and holding his throat, he posed no further danger so I sat and watched while he slowly recovered. Gentle drizzle began to fall.
I wondered idly if anyone would react to the shot. It seemed unlikely in such a rural area where shotguns were common. I stood, broke the breach of the shotgun to eject the spent shells and moved to check what damage the shotgun had done. Barry had some carbon marks on the left side of his face where the shot had missed but got pretty darned close to his skin. The blast would have taken his head clean off had he released the trigger under his chin.
‘Barry?’ I called to get his attention. My ears were ringing from the noise of the shotgun so I was probably speaking louder than I needed to. ‘Barry. Let’s go inside and talk. I need a cup of tea and you need to get your head straight so let’s go and see if together we can make some sense of this.’ Barry was looking at me from the floor. He was lying on his back still rubbing his throat, he didn’t speak but he nodded, a brief dip of the head as if that was all he could manage. He didn’t move though and I let a minute pass.
I was about to reinforce the idea of moving when he rolled onto his side and onto all fours and then onto his feet. I pointed with the shotgun and he trudged in front of me towards the park main entrance.
Pausing to fish in his coat pocket, Barry produced a l
arge bunch of keys, selected one and opened the door. I followed him as he shuffled through the foyer and back towards his office. The kettle I had spied when I first visited must have been already full because he flicked it on without adding water and proceeded to organise two mugs and two teabags. He turned to face me with the sugar pot and a spoon. Wordlessly he enquired and I declined still leaning in the office doorway.
Tea made the time to talk was upon us but I did not have to prompt him this time, Barry started his story and kept going until it was told. I interrupted only to clarify bits and pieces and right at the start to advise him that I was going to record the conversation.
Dr Barry Bryson PhD had invested in the Park because he believed he could make it a flourishing attraction that would make him rich while allowing him to work for himself and interact daily with animals. For him it was the greatest opportunity he could have been afforded. Against his wife’s wishes he remortgaged the house and plumbed everything into his dream. It failed miserably. He was a poor businessman and got further and further into debt, his wife had left him and the subsequent divorce had applied even more financial pressure. The Park barely broke even and he needed capital to invest to make it more interesting. He had hit upon the idea that he could create a new area of the park devoted to British mythical creatures. There were not very many of them and most were very local to particular areas, it would be an informative area, rather than actually having mythical creatures in it of course, he explained.
That idea had stalled though due to lack of funds but gave birth to the idea that he could write a novel that would generate cash, allow him to rejuvenate the park and prove all the doubters, especially his wife that Barry Bryson was a winner. A novel costs you nothing but time, right? And since he had no life, and no money to go out and get one, he dedicated every spare hour to writing his first novel.
No one wanted to publish it though. He tried everyone he could find and then some and finally just as he was about to give in he discovered that he could publish it himself. He felt convinced that the story was a masterpiece, a bestseller, if he could only get it into people’s hands. The publishers must be blind that they did not see its worth.
As luck would have it a favoured aunt had died and he had very recently come into a small amount of cash so he invested it in the book and bought ten thousand copies on the advice of a brother-in-law who had spoken very knowingly about the subject despite having no tangible link to the industry that Barry could perceive. Broke again Barry pestered local book shops, papers and radio stations until he was able to get some publicity and a couple of advertised book signings in the nearby towns. Start small and get the stone rolling was his philosophy. The book was slated by the critic in the local paper though, cited as being poorly written, confusing and boring. He sold twelve copies. That was two years ago and he had taken some time to accept the shortfalls in his book and produce a new draft. This time though no one would speak to him at all and he had no cash to pay for a new run of books.
Unable to come up with anything else he had hit upon with the idea to create a real beast of Bluebell Hill one night while watching a documentary on the North American Sasquatch and the various faked pictures and footage. All he needed was a suit, he could make that himself, and to make sure that no one got a good look at it.
It had worked better than he expected although he went out in it five times before anyone reported what they had seen. He would set up in places where he could park his car, spy over an area and then when he saw people put in a brief appearance before disappearing back into the bushes. He decided to make a report himself because he wanted to get some of the information correct and give his opinion as an expert. He could thus also plug his book and had a simple plan to make it onto daytime TV where he could show off his new book and get a publishing deal.
I let him ramble on for a while before I steered him towards the fatal incident.
Barry had been talking for half an hour by that point and getting more animated as he went. Now his mood shifted again. He said he had wanted to be seen a few more times but the accident happened and he couldn’t put the suit on again after that. On the morning of the accident he had parked down a narrow lane and was just getting his head piece on when he heard a car approaching. He was stood next to his car unsure what to do as there was no time to go anywhere and getting in the car would give the game away so he chose to cross the road. It would ensure he was seen and with the attention on him he hoped they would not see the car he had just left. Then the car passed him, jerked hard to the right, lost control and disappeared down the bank.
Barry had wanted to go to the rescue but terrified of being revealed he fled and hid the suit. He didn’t know that the driver had been killed until the following evening when the details were read out on the local evening news. He burned the suit and tried to forget his involvement.
By the time he had stopped talking an hour had passed and I could hear a car pulling across the gravel outside. Barry looked at me, something he had not really done at any point while recanting his story. ‘That will be Margaret here to open up and get ready for the day. Pointless really, but she has an easy job and no aspirations so I think it suits her.’
‘I need to call the police, Barry. They need to take your statement and decide what to do. I am just an investigator, I get paid to solve crimes or mysteries, what comes after is not within my power to decide.’
Barry looked at his desk and fidgeted a little ‘What will they do?’
I considered that for a moment before answering ‘I don’t know.’ was the best I could do. ‘You left the scene of an accident and it could be argued that you caused it, but I believe it will be difficult to show intent to do harm. Other than that, I am not sure what they could charge you with.’
I left Barry to consider that while I placed the call to PC Amanda Harper. I figured I might as well give her the collar. It would ingratiate me if nothing else.
She answered on the second ring ‘Hey Tempest, any luck finding Dozer?’
‘No. No, I’m afraid not.’ I replied glumly. I did not want to discuss the subject so I recanted some information about the Bluebell Hill Big Foot and got her moving in my direction.
I could hear Margaret approaching down the short corridor so I leaned against the doorway a little harder and held the shotgun against my body so that it was less visible.
‘Good morning, Dr Bryson.’ she chirped merrily. ‘Can I get you gentlemen a cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please.’ I answered and Barry nodded towards her expectant expression.
Margaret bustled off once again and I brought the shotgun back into both hands. ‘Is this licenced?’
Barry looked up ‘Yes. We keep it here. There is a shotgun cabinet in the back.’
‘I suggest you put it away then and clean the carbon off your face before the police get here. They have a dim view about discharging firearms near people.’ I held the gun out for him to take and trusting that he would not reload it and pop himself I went back into the reception to wait for Amanda.
The run time from the Maidstone station to the park was only a few minutes and my tea was still too warm to drink when the police arrived.
I was back outside where the sun had come out and the warmth from it made the carpark pleasantly cool now rather than cold. I had been fiddling with my phone while I waited for the tea to cool so slipped it back into my left back trouser pocket and pushed off from the wall I was lazily leaning against.
There was still a little mist hugging the trees as I looked up towards Bluebell Hill, it would burn off soon as the day took hold and warmed the earth. For now, it gave an eerie effect. I imagined then the Bluebell Big Foot emerging from the treeline and smiled wryly to myself that it would have been fun to see and questioned what I, as a total non-believer, would have made of it.
Amanda was in the driving seat of a silver 2013 model Ford Focus police car, beside her was PC Hardacre. I had learned his name last night when he h
ad offered his assistance in looking for Dozer and I had gladly accepted it. She turned in a wide arc and pulled to a stop in an empty part of the car park opposite where Barry and I were parked. The front bumper had nosed into the blackberry bushes that edged that side of the car park.
I could see them exchanging a few words and watched Brad pass Amanda her hat as they reached to their doors and got out.
‘PCs Harper and Hardacre.’ I acknowledged as they approached. ‘Dr Byson is inside. He has confessed to being the Bluebell Big Foot and I have it all on a recording on my phone. He seems genuinely very upset about the death of Simon Monroe.’ I omitted telling them about the attempted suicide this morning. ‘My interest in this case is pretty much finished, I was only hired to solve the mystery.’
‘Just like the Scooby gang.’ smirked PC Hardacre.
‘Yes. Just like the Scooby gang, but better paid.’ I replied taking a slurp of tea and smiling.
‘Will you show us to him?’ asked Amanda taking the lead, her voice soft and friendly but professionally curt at the same time.
I nodded and led them into the Park reception, past a startled looking Margaret and through to Barry’s office. He was sat patiently at his desk with a half-drunk cup of tea by his mouse mat.
While they dealt with Barry I made the call to Mrs Sweeting-Brand. It was not a call I was relishing even though I could impart news of my success yet the call was less unpleasant than I had anticipated.
Mrs Sweeting-Brand listened patiently while I explained how I had tracked down the culprit, as she liked to call him, then assured me that she would be following up the case with her own legal team. I immediately felt quite sorry for Dr Bryson.
Mrs Sweeting-Brand thanked me for my efforts, which surprised me, but then chided that I should not have needed her pressure to get the job done, which I felt summed her up nicely.
Call completed I tucked my phone away but remained leaning against the wall I had come to rest against. I was tired I realised. I had been running on adrenalin and determination for some time and it was taking its toll. I had bagged a few scant hours of sleep last night, most of it broken by vivid dreams.
