by steve higgs
‘Are you there, Tempest? You have stopped speaking.’
‘I am here, mother. But I am arriving at my meeting, so I need to go. I would like to know though how you come to be asking me to organise a baby shower for Rachael? Surely she has friends lining up to do this.’
‘Actually, she asked me.' Mother said, and I understood how it came to land at my door ‘I thought that since you are so good at organisation you would be happy to help me.'
Resignedly I admitted defeat. If I left it to mother, the event would be in the church hall with all the pensionable age ladies from the church in attendance, and the gifts would all be hand knitted clothes and toys.
‘I have to go mum, but I will call later to discuss it with you.’
‘Thank you, Tempest.’ she disconnected.
The satnav took me around a final corner and instructed me that I was now at my destination. Unfortunately, as so often happens when following a satnav, there was nothing actually there. To my right was a brick wall stretching as far as the eye could see and a good two metres high. Behind it was a forest of coniferous trees stretching toward the sky. The general message appeared to be to keep out. I drove on for a minute or so and spied ahead a gap in the wall which turned out to be a double gate entrance. The gates were huge and ornate and very much closed. Beyond them, a driveway stretched between oak trees for what must have been a quarter of a mile. Where it terminated, stood a house that could probably be called a stately home.
There was no question about whether I was at the right place or not, as set within the gates, arranged symmetrically on each side was the name Barker in huge wrought iron letters. The entrance had an intercom which I pulled up to.
I pressed the button and waited for a voice. ‘How may I help?’ it asked quite politely.
‘Tempest Michaels to see Mrs. Barker.' I answered.
‘You are expected. Please park at the front of the house where you will be met.’ The intercom fell silent again as the person took their finger off the button at their end. Moments later the gates began to open, the soundless motion a statement of quality.
It was an impressive, imposing place to visit. To either side of the driveway were fields of grass with trees and bushes as if a naturally occurring piece of the countryside had been captured and brought here. I spotted zebras to my right, silhouetted against the trees in the distance. The enormous house loomed as I neared it. It was a giant box of a structure, all brick, and ornately carved stone. The roof was either flat, or the front fascia extended upwards to hide it and there were fourteen windows I could count each side of the massive front doors going up three floors. I wondered how many people lived there. The driveway was almost wide enough for two cars to pass without either needing to move over. I discovered though that it was only almost wide enough, when just before I got to the end of the long line of trees, a yellow Nissan Skyline swung into view and belted down the driveway towards me. My brain told me it was not going to stop or even slow down. In fact, it was picking up speed, probably doing fifty and accelerating towards me. I had very little time to react, it had appeared so suddenly. I twitched my steering wheel to the right to get out of its way.
At the wheel was a young man. A young member of the Barker family I assumed since he drove like he owned the place and had not spared so much as a glance in my direction despite forcing me off the road.
Unphased, I pulled back onto the driveway and continued towards the house.
As promised, I was met by my car. It was a young chap in a suit that came out to meet me and escort me inside. He said very little, but I did get, "Please come with me." And when we arrived in a small anteroom a minute later, "Please wait here."
I pulled my notepad from the bag slung over my shoulder and scribbled a few questions:
Circumstances of the death. Where was he?
What time was he found?
By whom?
How long after he died was he found
Details of what killed him if the natural causes report is correct?
Why does Mrs. Barker think he was murdered?
Who does she believe is to blame?
The list went on for a bit and I was still pondering questions I might want to ask when a lady entered the room. The lady was short at perhaps five feet and two inches but wearing heels that elevated her by at least three inches. She was slim, and her clothes fit her very well. I estimated her age at a shade over fifty, which made her a good two and a half decades younger than her late husband, whose particulars I had researched before I left the office. Mrs. Barker was wearing a simple, yet very elegant fitted navy-blue dress and sheer, nude stockings over matching blue heels. She was a very attractive middle-aged woman.
I took three paces in her direction as she came towards me and extended my hand. ‘Mrs. Barker?' I enquired.
‘Yes, Mr. Michaels. Thank you for coming on such short notice.' I nodded rather than make more of it than was necessary. ‘Will you walk with me?' she asked indicating toward the door back out of the room.
‘Lead on, please.' Mrs. Barker turned elegantly and went back out the door she had just come through. I followed her down a short corridor and into a great entrance hall leading away from the massive front doors. I had been escorted in through a side door, probably a tradesman's entrance once upon a time.
‘I see you looking around at the opulence of the Barker residence, Mr. Michaels. I find myself doing that still and I have lived here for twenty-three years now.' I was listening to her voice and watching her body language. Mrs. Barker seemed sad. Whether it was sadness for the loss of her husband or for another reason I could not tell, but what I saw was a woman trying to pretend she was not weighed down by a terrible burden. I had a built-in need to rescue women. It did me few favours, but right now I wanted to solve this case for her.
‘It is an impressive place.’ I conceded.
‘The gentleman that opened the steel mill, my husband's Great-Grandfather, had it built at the turn of the last century using money his Grandfather had made. The Barker fortune has passed from eldest son to eldest son for generations and the last four generations have lived in this house. It is surprisingly uncomfortable to live in.' I raised an eyebrow, which she saw, and she smiled before continuing. ‘I realise that must sound ridiculous. The house is so large that it is impossible to heat in the winter. One can heat small portions of it and try to shut them off, so that the heat does not escape. The windows though cannot be replaced by modern heat retaining versions because the house is listed. They shed warmth all winter long and when one gets to one's car and discovers one has left an item in the bedroom it is a fifteen-minute trip to go back for it.' She was silent for a moment as if considering something. ‘I am describing first-world problems I realise. Perhaps we should get to the matter in hand.'
We had arrived in an office of sorts. The double height ceiling and enormous expanse of the room made it the biggest office I had ever been in. Mrs. Barker strolled across the room to a window and took a seat on one of four sofas arranged around a knee-high coffee table.
‘To business.' Mrs. Barker said. ‘I am sure you must have lots of questions for me but let me begin by framing the case I want you to investigate.'
‘Very good, Mrs. Barker.' I sat back on the sofa, adjacent to her and with my back to the windows. The notebook and pen were in my hands ready for taking notes should I feel anything noteworthy.
‘My husband, George had been ill for several years. He had a triple-bypass in 2012 and was taking medication to prevent further heart failure. The drug was Captopril.' She paused so I could write that down. ‘He was very good about taking the medication, but the coroner stated in his report that there was no trace of the drug in his system and that he must have stopped taking it weeks, if not months ago. Despite the heart issues, George had lived a full life and worked every day. He loved the Mill, which he inherited when his father died in 1988, but worked there from the day he left university. He had grown up with the Mill as a
focal point in his life and everything he did was for the good of the Mill and the people that work there. You are probably wanting to ask why I think he was murdered, so let me pre-empt the question. It seems likely that the coroner was right and that the drug had indeed left his system, but I think he was still taking the medicine, so I can only believe that someone had switched the pills. Worse yet I think the person that switched the drug was his Grandson, Brett.'
I wrote that snippet down and circled it, then wrote grandson is not hers with a question mark and drew a line between the two.
‘I am sure you can expand on that.’ She really needed to.
‘Brett has been vocally opposed to everything my husband has been doing for years. The Mill does not make enough money in his opinion, the staff are too old and not productive enough and he wants to tear it all down and sell it off. Brett, like all the Barker men before him, has worked at the Mill all his life, he is thirty-two now and seems to have had enough of it. He and I do not communicate very well I’m afraid, which is adding an additional level of difficulty to the current situation as I am the Financial Director for the business and he is the new owner. I believe Brett wants to sell the Mill, realise an instant fortune and leave. My husband, his grandfather, stood in the way of that but most damningly my husband suspected Brett’s plans and was looking to hand the Mill on to someone else.’ She paused for a moment while I was writing.
‘Continue please.’
‘Well, there are other Barkers of course. The eldest son has always inherited the Mill, but the younger siblings are out there so George reached out to the eldest son of his brother. Thomas Barker made a career as a lawyer and has an MBA. My Husband felt he would make a worthy successor. Brett found out that my husband was considering naming him as heir and they had a big fight. That was two weeks ago. Now my husband is dead, and Brett is the new owner.’
I had a question. ‘What happened to his father? There is a generation missing.'
‘Brett’s father died in a skiing accident fifteen years ago. I do not think there was anything untoward about it, he was an adventurous sort and broke his neck going too far off piste.’
‘Understood.’ I said, making another note. ‘So, please tell me, how does the Phantom fit into all this?’
Mrs. Barker sighed at the question, looked down at her dress, brushed some imaginary crumbs from her lap and looked back up again. ‘The Phantom is a fairy tale perpetuated by the workers at the Mill. Some of the men are past retirement age and remember the attacks and accidents in the nineteen seventies and many of them had fathers and grandfathers that worked there who would regale them with tales of the Phantom from even earlier incidents. There is an infamous photograph someone took a hundred years ago which shows a cloaked figure in the rafters above what is now B furnace. I expect it was faked at the time, just some chaps having a bit of a jape. The Phantom is supposed to leave a mark whenever there is an attack, a burnt handprint can always be found somewhere near the scene of the accident or event. A burnt handprint was found on the doorframe of my husband's office the night he was found dead.' Mrs. Barker was fighting to control her voice. It threatened to crack and hinted of sobbing episodes already endured.
‘I will need to see that handprint Mrs. Barker and any other handprints that remain in the Mill anywhere from previous incidents. You said accidents and events, can you elaborate on what specifically happened at any point? More recent events would be more pertinent.'
Mrs. Barker uncrossed her legs and sat forward. ‘I think it best you go to the Mill, Mr. Michaels. I will have you met by Ronald Drake. Ronald is one of the senior shop floor shift managers and has been at the Mill for over forty years. He will show you what you want to see.' I wrote down the name while she was retrieving her phone from her handbag. ‘Are you able to go directly there?'
I checked my watch: 1707hrs. There was nothing I needed to do other than feed the dogs and they would probably just sleep until I returned anyway. ‘Yes, I can.' I replied. Mrs. Barker nodded and dialled a number. I listened to one half of a conversation in which she relayed instructions to the person at the other end. The person was to find Mr. Drake and have him meet me in reception at half past five.
Mrs. Barker disconnected. ‘Ronald will finish at six o'clock, so you will need to get there soon.' she told me.
I still had some questions for her though. ‘Your grandson,’
‘My Husband's Grandson.' she corrected me. ‘I am my late husband's third wife and I have no children, Mr. Michaels.' I wrote that down in case it was important later.
I started again. ‘Your husband’s Grandson, Brett. You accuse him of murder, do you have any evidence?’
‘No, Mr. Michaels. That is why I have engaged your services.' A fair point. ‘I have had my personal assistant prepare a pack containing Brett's financial statements as they pertain to the firm, plus a copy of his personnel file, his old school reports and anything else she was able to obtain.' This would provide me with some riveting reading this evening. It was good to have some of the research done for me though, so I was not complaining.
‘Did your husband have any enemies? Rivals that had fallen foul of him at any point? Disgruntled former employees? Anyone that might have wished ill of him?' I liked the idea that it was the Grandson because it was nice and neat and solving a case is always easier if you already know the solution and need only to find the evidence. However, I did not want to waste time blindly following a lead at the expense of all other options only to discover it to be false later.
‘Only one that I can think of. My husband was well liked and respected. To my knowledge, he did not incur enemies, but two weeks ago he fired a young executive. Brett went mad, the man was his right hand, but we had suffered several accidents at the Mill in the preceding weeks, there was a tip-off and they found safety lockouts from an overhead crane in the boot of his car. He was blamed for sabotage and summarily dismissed.' Mrs. Barker paused to allow me to scribble on my pad and continued when I looked up. ‘His name is Owen Larkin. He threatened to sue, get an employment tribunal etcetera, but Brett paid him off with company money.'
I wrote motivation next to his name and underlined it and drew a line to Brett’s name to join the two. Something screwy was going on, that was for certain.
‘Mrs. Barker, I will have more questions for you but for now, I think I have enough to get on with my investigation. We need to discuss my fees.' I outlined what I charged by way of billing hours and expenses and made sure she understood where my responsibility ended as all too many of my clients seemed to think I had some special powers of arrest. I would gather evidence, identify a killer if there was one, find the Phantom and if her husband was murdered, I would hand that person over to the police. Mrs. Barker seemed utterly unconcerned about my fees, but given the house I was sitting in, I guessed she was not short of money.
I bid her good day, shook her hand once more and headed back to my car. She had given me the address for the Mill. It was only a five-minute drive away, so I was going there next.
Barker Mill. Thursday, 7th October 1747hrs
The drive to Barker Mill somehow avoided all traffic until the last five hundred metres, whereupon I ceased forward motion and remained stationary for several minutes. I began slowly moving again after a short, but boring interlude and crept along the road to the Mill entrance. I knew where the Mill was because I had passed it many times on my way to other places. I had never really looked at it before though and did not know its name until now. It sat on the south bank of the Thames in the shadow of the Queen Elizabeth the Second bridge that had been built in the nineties. It was a huge brick building with two tall thin chimneys escaping it to grasp at the sky. As I turned into the wide entrance, the plant stretched out in front of me and went on for as far as I could see. A forty-foot-long articulated truck rolled out of the front gate past me loaded with steel to deliver. Emblazoned on the side was Barker Steel in big blue letters against the snow-white background of the ve
hicle's body. A billboard-sized map of the plant was on my left, I slowed the car, so I could get a good look at it.
Just ahead of me the map claimed, was the reception. It would be the shiny, new glass-fronted building I could see dead centre of my windscreen. I had already passed a sign instructing visitors to report to reception upon arrival. That was where Ronald Drake would be waiting for me.
I parked the car in the first space I came to, which was also about as far away from reception as I could get, while still parking in the designated area for visitors. I looked across to reception to see if I had been observed but no one inside was paying attention. I wanted to have a look around for myself without being guided or controlled. I had a few minutes before I was expected, plus I was sure that Ronald would wait.
From the boot of my car, I selected a clipboard on which there was a wad of paper, a hard hat with HSE in big letters on the front and an ID badge in a plastic clip-on holder. I had learned long ago that a person with a clipboard is universally accepted as rightfully belonging wherever they happened to be, but also that the Health and Safety Executive could absolutely go wherever they pleased, without warning, without permission and then demand answers from the persons they encountered without needing to justify asking them. The ID was fake and had taken me about ten minutes to make at home. I had bought the sticker for the hat online. I had only used the disguise once before, but with complete success, so I had no qualms about using it now. If all else failed a confident manner would see me through.
The Mill had been added to over its century of life. There was a huge brick building in the centre of everything else, which I assumed housed the furnaces had been designed with architectural consideration and not just function. It had high windows stretching over several stories, a tile roof, and cast-iron guttering. All of it had elegant features, flowers cast into the downpipes, fleur-de-lis in the stone around the windows, additional lines here and there. It would most likely be missing from a modern construction where cost might dictate these minor additions are ignored. The central brick building dominated the site but there were many, many smaller buildings surrounding it, huge silver pipes joining many of them. I picked out a building that I guessed was a cooling tower, there were piles and piles of steel beams in several areas and enormous overhead cranes to carry the steel about the place and to the dockside. As I watched, a ship was being loaded by a ship-to-shore crane.
