by steve higgs
Forty minutes later and back at Dartford station I collected my car, thankful that I had prudently paid for a full day’s parking as right then the car next to mine was receiving a fixed penalty on its windscreen in a sticky bag.
Rochester High Street Flower Shop. Friday, 15th October 1600hrs
I drove back to the office in Rochester. My working day was very much at an end and as I had nothing more that I needed to do before I went home, I intended to try one more time to catch up with Hayley. It had now been most of a week since we had spent the night together and I had received no response to my earlier text. I was not sure what that meant but it felt unlikely that it was a positive sign. I elected to buy some flowers and drop them off at the coffee shop. If she wasn't there, I felt certain that one of her colleagues would let her know that I had brought them in for her.
There was a florist just a couple of doors along from the coffee shop, so I went in there and asked for a bouquet of pretty, pink flowers. I did not want red roses because they suggested a deeper sense of affection than I wanted to convey. It was supposed to be a token of affection, or gratitude maybe. I waited patiently while the lady pulled the bouquet together and wrapped them up for me.
Outside it was beginning to get dark. I was still buoyant from finishing up the Phantom case and caught myself humming a happy tune as I strolled airily along the street.
The attack came as a surprise.
I reeled from the initial blow to my face, shocked more than hurt but went with the strike to put distance between myself and my attacker. Then the information update arrived in my brain and I realised I had been slapped. Not punched or kicked or hit with a weapon. I had been slapped on my face. And the slapper was Hayley.
She was stood facing me now, her chest heaving from the surge of adrenalin. ‘You utter twat.' She spat at me. ‘Are those for her?' she asked indicating the flowers.
Utterly befuddled, my mouth opened and closed a few times while I struggled for an answer.
‘Answer me, you pathetic man whore.’ she demanded, screeching. People were stopping to watch the street theatre now.
‘Her who?’ I had to ask.
‘Wha…?' she started to ask. ‘You men are all such players. You think you can just shag us and shag everyone else.'
‘I bought you flowers.’ I managed weakly, still having no idea what was going on. ‘I don’t know who else you think I have been shagging, but…’
‘Shut up,’ she screamed, cutting me off, ‘I saw you with the cute blond three times this week already.’
What blond. I asked myself. Amanda? When would she have seen me with her?
‘Don't bother coming here for your coffee.' She twirled and stormed back inside the coffee shop, leaving me on the street with more than a dozen strangers all staring at me. I looked at them now. They each decided the show was over and drifted away. I looked at the flowers in my hand and walked over to a bin. As I was about to throw them in, I saw a copy of the local paper, The Weald World shoved loosely in. It was the headline on the page that caught my eye:
Klown attack?
I picked the slightly crumpled paper out of the bin, inspected it briefly to ensure there was nothing icky stuck to it and stood in the street reading the article.
Klown attack? Following recent reports of clown activity, this reporter believes there is something sinister going on. Graffiti adorns our walls telling us the Klowns are coming.
Below there was a photograph of a wall with that exact message displayed in crude spray writing.
Fourteen attacks have been recorded in the last week, each with escalating violence. The latest attack occurred in Canterbury where Judith Tennant suffered a stab wound after being chased by a clown on her way home from work. Miss Tennant described her attacker as a traditional circus clown in every way except for the face paint, which was horrific.
I kept reading. The article was written by Sharon Maycroft, a person I knew quite well and had an unfulfilled promise by her to get together for nocturnal activities soon. Given how much my right cheekbone was stinging now after my last bout of nocturnal activity had somehow gone awry, I might steer clear. She was, however, a reliable reporter. Klown reports were becoming popular. It was a case for the police really, not for me. But I did have a plea for help already so I could envisage myself being drawn into the Klown silliness yet. Sharon outlined how many attacks had taken place and where. They were all in different towns across Kent and the description of the attacker in each case was similar, but also dissimilar enough to make it sound like there might be more than one person. Sharon was hinting at this, but it seemed more likely to me that it was the same guy dressing differently each time.
I put the paper back in the bin. Decided to keep the flowers and headed back to my car. Despite my stinging face and marked downturn in the likelihood of Mr. Wriggly getting any action this weekend, it was, nevertheless Friday night and that meant the pub beckoned. I had a steak in my fridge waiting to hit the pan and life was good enough to be savoured.
The Dirty Habit Public House. Friday, 15th October 1917 hrs
The dogs had been glad to see me as usual. I sat on the tile in my kitchen and fussed them for a while. Then, because it was almost dinner time, I cracked a can of dog food and sat on the floor once more, stroking their fur while they ate.
With bellies full, they lost interest in me and headed for the back door. I would be taking them for a long walk to the pub shortly, so sent them to relieve themselves in the garden while I made a cup of tea.
As I walked to the pub an hour later, my own belly full of steak and sweet potato fries I looked back on the case.
I had taken Kerry with me to track down her Grandfather. We found him in his boiler room with Ronald. They had both greeted Kerry as she went through the door before me, asking her what she was doing down on the shop floor, but stopped talking quickly when I came in behind her. Their immediate silence told me I had guessed right.
I told them that Brett was innocent and that another party was to blame then implored them to tell me the truth. They had looked at each other and said nothing, but when Kerry started talking instead, Old Sam waved her into silence saying that she would only tell it wrong.
Old Sam had seen Mr. Miller wearing the Phantom outfit on a fateful day in his first month at the Mill. When Barry had fallen from the rafters and he had followed the shadow, it was distinctly Mr. Miller's face that had appeared from beneath the cowl of the cloak. For days he had wondered if he should say something but had not done so because he could not work out what to say or who to say it to. He spent months searching different areas of the Mill for the Phantom outfit, wondering where Mr. Miller had stashed it.
He very quickly found though that he had become Mr. Miller's favourite. He was given the best jobs to perform, those that carried some degree of responsibility and some weeks later, when the owner, Mr. Barker had visited the foundry to view production, he had been introduced to him as one of the rising stars. Bewildered by the praise, he had caught Mr. Miller's eye. Mr. Miller just winked at him and made a shushing motion with one finger to his mouth.
The Phantom attack had been solely to stop Barry from shagging his daughter, Old Sam was certain of that. Whether the Phantom had ever been real he could not say, but no other attacks happened for several years and when the next incident did occur it had happened when Mr. Miller was in plain sight. Old Sam decided that it was just an accident and nothing to do with the Phantom at all, but everyone had automatically blamed the Phantom as if no other explanation was needed. Mr. Miller had joined in the chorus and had used it as a warning that the Phantom protected the Mill and was displeased with output. For a month production had increased by twenty percent with no extra hours being worked. Old Sam had learned something about people that night. He was soon promoted to a supervisory position above many of the older men that had trained him.
To Old Sam's knowledge, Mr. Miller never saw a need to play the role of the phantom again. In 19
87 Mr. Miller retired. Old Sam considered going to visit him at home to ask him about the Phantom but before he could do so Mr. Miller suffered a heart attack and died. A week later a black cloak and an articulated steel hand with an asbestos handle had arrived in a parcel addressed to him. There was a handwritten note which Old Sam produced from a locker against the wall behind him. It was crumpled and tattered from age but still perfectly legible.
Dear Samuel,
I came into the possession of the Phantom's hand many years ago when my father retired. I have been sworn to secrecy my entire life, but perhaps in death, I can finally tell the truth. The first Phantom was nothing more than a shadow seen by my Grandfather. He made a comment as a joke but the chap next to him took it seriously and when someone was hurt the next day in an accident the Phantom was blamed, and the legend was born. My Grandfather was a senior Mill supervisor, much like me and saw an opportunity to influence and motivate the workers through the Phantom. He used it to get more from them, to stop them wandering off for a crafty fag and to explain away equipment problems to the owner when he had himself messed up. My father took over from him and I from my father. I confess that I used the Phantom for my own purposes and that I should not have. It was not my intention for the walkway to collapse and cause such terrible injuries. I merely wanted to frighten Barry.
I have no son of my own, so I pass the Phantom's hand and cloak to you to do with as you please. I believe you to be a trustworthy man and hope that you will act in the best interests of the Mill.
Yours
Archibald Miller
When Brett Barker began to wield his power and started to speak out against how the Mill was run, Old Sam had chosen to bring the Phantom out of retirement. He had never worn the cloak himself and now he was too old to do so. He confided in an old friend at the Mill and together he and Ronald had hatched a plot to frame Brett Barker. His granddaughter Kerry was reluctant at first but had relented when they convinced her everyone's job was in danger.
Brett Barker had no intention of shutting the Mill. He had a secret deal with Zoom-It, the massive online retailer. He was going to sell them steel at almost cost price to meet their European building plans and had struck a deal that meant any equipment in poor repair would be replaced at Zoom-It's expense. He had a chance to secure the future of the Mill and thus everyone's jobs for the next decade and could simultaneously get new foundry equipment. All he had to do was target some of the older machines to accelerate their wear. He had secured his family legacy but fought with his Grandfather who could see no reason to change anything about their current operation. Under an iron-clad non-disclosure agreement, he could not even tell his Grandfather what he had planned. The only person he had involved in the meetings with Zoom-It was Owen Larkin. That was why Brett Barker had continued to deal with him after his Grandfather fired him and why he paid him off.
Owen Larkin was working for Mrs. Barker though. Every decision Brett made Owen relayed directly to her. Every plan, every thought that Brett had was shared. The man Brett trusted above all others was the one betraying him at every turn. It had messed with Owen's plan when the crane lock outs had appeared in his car and the old man had fired him. Brett came to the rescue though - the irony was stark. Brett had not been at the other end of the phone call I had overheard outside Owen's house. He had seen me and called Mrs. Barker. Together they played me like a fiddle and nearly got away with it.
Mrs. Barker had full access to all the firm's credit cards so had been able to make the payment to Martin Wilkins using Brett's card. She had seduced poor Martin Wilkins and used money, sex, and gifts like the car to make him play the Phantom. She had him make up the fake heart meds then quit his job at Palmer Pharmaceuticals to then take a job at the Mill where she had promised him a brighter future. She had at least delivered on all her promises, but I had to wonder what her end play was for him. Would she have killed him off too? He had gone to George Barker's office the night of his death on her instruction. In bed, she had told him that she wanted to be with just him and they could be together if he would help her get rid of her husband. George had a weak heart and a fright might end him. Martin had obeyed her instructions willingly. He had knowingly provided fake heart medication and had known what it was for. When he and I had finished our little chat in the car park I had advised him to turn himself in. He had not done so and had been arrested trying to board a ferry out of Dover.
Kerry was guilty of burning Chris Partridge. Old Sam and Ronald had convinced her to play the Phantom. She was supposed to sabotage Mill equipment and very carefully endanger members of the workforce – played cleverly by Old Sam and Ronald. When the police became interested, they would then leave a trail back to Brett Barker so that he would be blamed for the accidents. It had been Kerry that had taken the crane lockouts and placed them in Owen's car. They were supposed to be in Brett's car, but he never left his keys where she could get to them, she said. She had been going into the Mill at night and loosening bolts or cutting wires. It was damaging the Mill's output, but they agreed it was a necessary step to get rid of Brett Barker. Chris Partridge had gone to school with Kerry and had teased her about her weight for years. When he followed her into the boiler room that night, she remembered how much she disliked him and grabbed his arm with the hot glove. She seemed genuinely regretful though and I felt that he had probably earned his injury. I told her that I would not be sharing her secret. Owen Larkin, Martin Wilkins, and Margaret Barker would be charged with conspiracy to murder George Barker and the attack on Chris Partridge could get swept up into the investigation.
There had never been a Phantom. It had always just been a man in a costume, or it had been nothing at all and superstition had allowed people to blame their mistakes on a mysterious figure. Now that I knew the truth of it, I could reveal what I had learned. I could hold a press conference if I chose to and expose the Phantom as a sham, but I had no current intention of doing so. My focus was already moving to the next case, whatever that might be.
Crossing the pub car park, I could see Jagjit, Hilary, Big Ben and Basic all sitting around our usual table. The warm light from inside was inviting. I went inside to a warm greeting from my friends. I gave them my usual salutations and left the dogs with them to get my round of drinks in.
The simple task of retrieving a round of cold drinks proved to be fraught with complication though as stood staring at me from behind the bar was Natasha. Her expression was probably best described as frosty, but I fear that term fails to capture adequately the ice spilling from her face. There was no one else waiting at the bar and we had already locked eyes. I had nowhere to go but straight towards her to meet my fate.
Natasha and I had enjoyed a lunch date a couple of weeks back during which Natasha had kissed me, poured out her heart and left the ball firmly in my court. Since then life had gotten away from me, I had lost her number and despite attempts to find a way to make contact, I had not done so. Natasha was lovely to look at, delightful to speak to and was probably excellent girlfriend material. However, because I am stupid, I have been fawning over Amanda and neglecting the perfectly obvious choice right in front of me. That I had found time to message Hayley, arrange a date and spend a night rolling around naked with her proved that there had been time for Natasha had I been thinking straight.
‘So, what can I get you, Mr plays-it-cool?’ Natasha asked.
Bugger. I had not intended to play it cool with Natasha. Indeed, I could not remember ever purposefully playing it cool with a lady. What could I say at this point though?
‘Sorry, Natasha.’ I tried. ‘I had every intention of calling you. I lost your number.’ As I said the words, I realised just how weak they sounded. ‘I planned to call you.’ Her expression and stance had not changed one bit.
‘Well, you didn’t call me, Tempest. It is what it is.’
At least she was talking. Maybe I wasn’t sunk after all and this was salvageable with a rueful smile and a heartfelt request for a se
cond chance.
‘Just don’t bother trying to call me now.’
Or maybe not.
‘What can I get you?’ she asked again.
‘Two pints of lager, please.’ I replied glumly.
Natasha poured the drinks, took my money and deposited my change in the charity jar on the bar without asking my opinion on the matter or even looking my way. Suddenly the pub felt like a much less enticing place to visit.
I took the drinks back to the table where the chaps were all engaged in conversation.
‘What are we talking about, chaps?' I asked, sitting down.
‘Embarrassing sexual escapades.’ Answered Jagjit. ‘Hilary was just regaling us with a story. Do you want to back up and start again mate?’
Hilary took a swig of his drink and started talking. ‘So, I was seventeen and getting my first ever blow job. The girl's name was Tracy Hunt. Well, I had a bit of a dodgy tummy and I desperately needed to fart, but I figured I could hold it and there was no way I wanted her to stop. I'm sure you can all see where this is going, but there I was lying on the bed with her head bobbing up and down. It went on for ages and my need to fart got worse and worse and then I hit climax and my ability to hold it in left me. I let out a total felt-ripper of a fart that must have gone on for five seconds. By the time all the gas inside me had vented itself to atmosphere, she had already left my bedroom and the door was slamming shut.'
We were all laughing at his expense, which was the point of the story of course. Big Ben seemed to find it funnier than the rest of us though.
‘I never saw her again.' Hilary said. Big Ben snorted his drink. ‘And when I looked between my legs there was a single piece of sweetcorn that I had ejected from my bum.' Big Ben now had tears rolling down his cheeks. ‘It was like life was giving me the finger.'
