by steve higgs
‘So, how may we help you, Mr. Michaels?' asked Mrs. Winters, taking the lead before I felt the need to.
‘As you know ladies, I am investigating the vampire murder case and it is important for me to create the most complete picture possible. This should just be a simple case of me asking a few questions and you answering where you can.’
The three ladies were looking at me expectantly, so I placed the cup and saucer on a side table adorned with a doily, reached down into my bag and produced a notebook in which I had roughed out some questions I hoped to ask them. I started at the top.
‘What time did Rita leave here on the night in question?’
Jean was sitting in the middle of the three-seater sofa with Rebecca to her right and Rosemary to her left. Rebecca and Rosemary both leaned forward so the three women could each see the other two.
‘I think it was about half-past eleven, wasn't it?' asked Rebecca of the other two.
‘About that wouldn’t you say, Jean?’ asked Rosemary.
‘Yes, ladies. I think that is about right,’ agreed Jean.
This pattern then continued with pretty much every question thereafter as I worked through my list. I would ask a question, the three would confer briefly and Jean would provide the answer. It was a bit like watching University Challenge where only the spokesperson could give the answer.
Nevertheless, I got to the end of my sheet and by then had jotted two pages of notes. None of it seemed to mean anything though. The ladies met every week on the same day and played canasta, they had been doing so for years although they were not sure what to do now as they were missing their fourth player. They drank Sherry and wine and always met at Jean’s house because she had the nice card table. They would take it in turns to do food and I had collected several other meaningless and banal facts. Rita always walked home, her husband had been dead for six years and she lived alone as did they all, although Rosemary had never married, she told me with a wink.
As I scribbled notes, the two dogs had made themselves very comfortable and had the look of two contented and very sleepy dogs nestled as they were, either side of Jean so the sofa went old lady, stupid dog, old lady, stupid dog, old lady. I was not fooled though for had a crumb of cake been offered to them they would have reacted faster than your average superhero.
The walk from Jean’s House to Rita’s was less than half a mile and took her only a few minutes. They had been very shocked and horrified to hear the news of course, but that was about all I got from them. Tea drunk and cake eaten, I packed my notepad and pen away, ushered the dogs towards the door and stopped to shake the ladies' hands, each in turn. I thanked them one last time and went back outside to the car. A light drizzle had set in during the hour I had spent with them, so the dogs, who perpetually avoided any form of wetness, ran to the car and looked pointedly at me and then the door and then me until I arrived to scoop them inside.
As I pulled away, I ran a quick mental calculation on whether I needed any groceries, decided I did and pointed the car towards Sainsbury's. I was gathering information on the vampire case, but so far, I was not making any of it join up or lead me anywhere. It was odd to be without a paying case, but I doubted it would last very long. Oh well, it was Friday afternoon, so I could enjoy not having a regular job, maybe get a bath and watch some TV. Tonight, I was out with the chaps for a beer.
Good times.
Pub O’clock. Friday, September 24th 1846hrs
I showered and changed selecting Caterpillar boots, jeans and a polo as suitable for going to the pub attire. It was 1846hrs, a little early to be heading out and I needed to eat first. Bull and Dozer were sat watching TV on the couch, but soon appeared in the kitchen when I rattled a few pots. Ever hopeful, like all the rest of their canine brethren, they forget each meal as soon as the last bite is swallowed and immediately revert to hungry.
I kept my cupboards stocked with healthy food because like so many people I found it all too easy to open a wrapper and start chomping something easy and less nutritious whenever my stomach demanded sustenance. I grew vegetables in my garden and made sure that I got my five-a-day whenever possible. I never, or at least rarely, ate processed food and never had white carbs in the house. It was not so much that I was dreadfully vain about my appearance, although I will admit that I want to look good but I was quite focused on being healthy and convinced that regular exercise and a nutritious diet made a person more focused, more capable and in many ways happier at a basic level. Of course, I do still drink alcohol and do still eat burgers or pies on occasion simply because they taste good.
What to eat then? An eternal conundrum. I had turkey mince in the fridge, so dinner was brown rice with a turkey and vegetable chili and lots of avocado pear diced into it at the end. Healthy, nutritious, filling and low in anything that might be considered fattening which is a good thing as I planned to put four or more pints of beer on top of it.
The dogs had wandered off when it became clear I was not fixing a second meal for them but reappeared as my spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl for the last few morsels. Looking down at them, I said, ‘Sorry chaps. There is no way I am giving you chili to finish. Especially you Dozer, since you fart like a warthog with dysentery anyway.' Undeterred they continued to wag their tails until the bowl and the cooking pots went into the dishwasher. Disappointed, they retreated to the lounge and slipped under the cover on their bed, leaving two little tails hanging out.
My phone rang, the screen claiming that it was Big Ben calling. I had known Big Ben for many years, meeting him in Bosnia when he had been transferred into my section from another unit following an ‘incident' (he hit someone he really shouldn’t have). Big Ben was… well, he was big. He stood six feet and seven inches tall and was mostly muscle. He was classically good looking, his ability to pick up women was legendary, and I still didn't really understand how he did it despite years of studying his technique. He was also a complete cad with women, had no belief in relationships and would expound his theories on the subject given even the slightest opportunity and stated that he was constantly in danger of creating mini-versions of himself because women spontaneously ovulated when they saw him naked. A couple of years ago, his parents were killed in a road traffic incident that proved to be caused by negligence on the part of a national haulage company and he received a substantial payout. He promptly left the army to pursue full-time shagging; his words, not mine. By blind serendipity, we had grown up just a mile or so apart, so when I took my uniform off for the last time and moved home, we had met for a pint and a chat and had been hanging out together ever since. Today, Big Ben lived in a nice penthouse apartment overlooking the river Medway in the middle of Maidstone where he could easily predate on the ladies of the town. He didn't work, as he didn't need to, so filled his time with going to the gym and playing golf. Occasionally he helped me out as back up on my cases because it gave him the chance to do something different and a slim chance that he might get to thump someone.
‘Ben. What's up?' I asked as the call connected.
‘Nothing man, everything is sweet at my end. Shagged a totally hot Swedish chick last night and she was still in my house when I got in from golf, so I gave her another seeing to and then tossed her out. Let her get a shower first though.’
‘So, considerate.’
‘Nah mate, it was so I could get her phone and erase my number from it. She took it last night when I was chatting her up.’
‘But she knows where you live, Ben. Won't she just come back when she discovers your number is not in her phone?'
‘They never have done before. It is, of course, possible, I suppose.'
‘You make me sick, Ben. I spent last night sat on a client's sofa waiting for a poltergeist and before that, I watched a couple of episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer as research. Nearest I got to sex last night was when Bull licked my nose.'
‘When were you last at the gym?’
‘Err, Tuesday, no Wednesday evening.’
‘Were there hot girls in the gym?’
‘There are always hot girls in the gym, Ben. Going to the gym makes them hot generally.’
‘And did you approach any of the hot girls? Poor lonely ladies with nothing better to do on a Wednesday night than to go to the gym, hoping desperately that they can hone and tone their bodies to the point where a man, maybe any man, will take an interest. Did you try to save them from the perpetual struggle they must engage in just to make themselves attractive enough to warrant a man's attention? No, you didn't. You left them to suffer, didn't you? You utter git. Those poor girls had to drag themselves home again all alone. You could have spent the night making one of them feel special, helping her get clean again after the sweat of the gym.'
‘I don’t think it works like that for anyone but you, mate.’
‘And that is why you fail, my little Padawan.’
‘Ben what did you call for?’ I asked impatiently.
‘To tell you I shagged a totally hot Swedish bird,’ he replied, clearly exasperated as if I was being particularly dense, ‘Anyway, get to the pub, I’ll be there in ten minutes.’ He hung up.
Git.
‘Boys! Get your collars on.' I hollered through the house. I listened for the onrush of feet across the stone floor.
Nothing.
‘Boys!' I called again as the lazy little monkeys had failed to move, ‘Come along chaps, it is pub o'clock,' I called as I went through to the lounge to find their two tails still poking out of their bed covers. I hustled them up and out into the garden. Better to pee in the garden than the pub. Two minutes later and with their collars on, the three of us went out the door.
Friday Night at the Pub. Friday, September 24th 1937hrs
The pub was a couple of streets over from my house on the main road through the village. If I went directly there it was less than five hundred metres and would take perhaps three minutes. It was a pleasant evening though, so I took a long route to the pub as it meant that the chaps could exercise themselves and would arrive at the pub ready to curl up in a corner and sleep.
Bull and Dozer knew the way to the pub, which they demonstrated by increasing their pull on the lead as we neared it. They dragged me the last few yards through the car park, not that I was exactly kicking and screaming, and I pushed open the door to pass over the threshold and into the warmth of the Dirty Habit. I had taken the time to make sure the dogs were walked, and we arrived at 1937hrs which was neither early nor late.
Natasha was behind the bar as usual. Friday night was her shift and the chaps were already sat in the right-hand corner, their pints in varying stages of emptiness.
‘Alright, fellas?' asked Big Ben of the dogs, leaning down and ruffling their fur. This was usual routine for the dogs, so I left them with the guys and headed to the bar.
‘My round, chaps,' I announced as I passed them. Always good to make sure you get a round in early I find. Besides, I had been trying and failing to chat up Natasha the barmaid since I moved into the village. She was busy serving drinks to a waitress whose name I could not remember, but who would be taking the drinks through to the restaurant area of the pub. I waited patiently and tried not to notice the four inches of cleavage Natasha was showing. I found her to be something of a conundrum as she was intelligent and well-spoken but so far as I could make out her only job was pulling pints in the pub, and since she never talked about herself other than to tell you how she was feeling, whatever other income or career she might have was a mystery. She always wore her tops low, her boobs high and regarded men that noticed them with a look that made them feel lower than pond scum. Furthermore, she was a delightfully willowy and well-polished size eight which only made her chest look larger. As a single heterosexual man, I found it hard not to stare.
Anyway, at this point, I realised I was, in fact, staring at her boobs and not being in any way surreptitious about it. I glanced back up at her face to find that Natasha was now staring at me and did not look as pleased as I might have liked.
‘Like them do you, Tempest?’ she asked, referring to her boobs.
What is the correct response here? Better yet, what response can I give that will get me served, while maintaining a slim chance that I might still have a chance to take her out at some point?
‘I’m not sure I have ever noticed them before, Natasha,’ I hazarded, scrambling for a safe position, ‘I generally find myself captivated by your fantastic eyes and rarely see anything south of them.’ Placated somewhat by my response, or perhaps just so disinterested in me that she didn't care what I said, she took my order. She did smile though, which I thought meant I had dug myself out of the mire a little at least. I waited patiently for the drinks to be served which afforded me the chance to check my phone for messages. I had none but wasn’t sure whether I felt this was good or bad. I decided to put it away and leave it there until I got home.
I glanced across at my drinking buddies sat around one of the small tables. The pub was old and beautiful, poorly lit in places, but typical of village pubs all over England. It sat on a corner of the main road running through the tiny village of Finchampstead, just outside Maidstone in Kent. After so many years in the army living away from England, there had been a yearning to return to the joys of village life and the simplicity of a good pub. This one had been in the same spot for centuries, surviving against competitors as other pubs had opened and subsequently closed over the many years. In the eighties, the small village had three pubs, but only the Dirty Habit remained despite the village population increasing when a new, small estate was built. The origin of the pub's name was a play on words due to the Friary located just about a mile away between this village and the next.
I got back to the table with three pints of Kronenberg and returned to the bar for an ale and a cider. I took a spare chair and pulled it up between Jagjit and Ben.
‘So, what now mate?’ asked Jagjit. Jagjit and I had gone to school together, met on our first day still aged four and had attended each other’s Birthday parties until we left School. I joined the army and left the country, Jagjit had stayed where he was and was still there every time I came home on leave. When I finally came home for good, it was Jagjit that organised my homecoming. When I say homecoming I, of course, mean that we went for a curry and had a few pints. Jagjit worked in some kind of sales and judging by his car he was making out okay. His parents were still alive, and he lived with them. He had been married briefly before the lady in question ran off with his cousin and he had moved back home at that point. That was more than a decade ago and he steadfastly refused to entertain getting married again much to his mother's annoyance. He had four brothers though and each had multiple children, so I was not sure what her issue was. Much like Big Ben, Jagjit had offered to come on jobs with me and then, after I had not taken up his offer, he began pestering me. I think maybe Big Ben had made the stakeouts and occasional confrontations sound more glamorous or adventurous than they are, but he wanted to join in, so I had relented and Jagjit had helped on a couple of cases so far.
Across from me sat Hilary, whose actual name was Brian Clinton, but… well, it's obvious really. He had been Hilary for so long that even his wife called him it. Her name was Anthea and she very definitely wore the pants in their relationship. I wondered sometimes if she wore the penis also. Hilary was allowed out on a Friday night though because his wife said so. I had met him in the pub a few months ago and he was a solid member of the Friday night crowd now. Hilary was tall and thin, and his hair was starting to recede, he was wearing an outfit probably provided by his wife that was designed to make him look as unattractive as possible while still being modern and almost trendy in appearance. His top was a Ralph Lauren polo shirt but in a colour that could best be described as portaloo blue. His jeans were probably expensive also but looked too big for his skinny waist, so the cinched-in belt gave the appearance of a potato-sack tied with string in the middle. He worked in telemarketing, a job in which he was clearly
capable as he was some kind of senior manager, but one which he had never had anything positive to say about. His face bore a perpetually morose expression, but he had the driest sense of humour I had ever encountered.
Finally, there is Basic. James Burnham is called Basic because God only loaded him with the basic package. He could breathe and walk and perform basic tasks, but that was pretty much it. He lived with his mum and we liked him because he made each of us feel like Stephen Hawkins' brighter brother. He had shaggy black hair that hung down past his ears at the front and sides and back, his clothes were generally dirty because he tended to spill on himself, but he was clean enough because his mum looked after him. He had found employment stacking supermarket trollies when he left school and had been doing it ever since. Like Jagjit and Big Ben, Basic had asked if he could come along when I needed muscle. Muscle was something he had as if nature had compensated for his lack of IQ with an abundance of strength. More Quasimodo than Adonis, Basic looked like he could have been the world's greatest caveman and might be able to break rocks with his head. Just like with Jagjit, I had relented and brought Basic along with Big Ben and I a few weeks back when the extra person seemed an appropriate step. I worried afterward what the person I had tracked the case in question to, and thus needed to have a word with, had thought as he opened his door to me with my two henchmen flanking me one on either side.
The conversation was paused when I returned with the beverages, but it never takes Big Ben long to turn it around to who he shagged last night.
‘Has anyone else noticed that African girls have really spicy tasting vagina's?' asked Big Ben as if that was a perfectly normal question. This drew a laugh from me and Jagjit but not Basic, who probably just didn't get it, nor Hilary who had just put his drink to his lips and snorted the sip he was taking in reaction. Unperturbed by Hilary still coughing beer, Big Ben pressed on with his anecdote. ‘I met a girl from Uganda last week and had her come to my place for sex on Tuesday night. She was pretty good, so I let her stay over so I could shag her again in the morning, but then I was lying in bed Wednesday morning waiting for her to wake up and I was thinking that I had never eaten African food and never had a relationship with an African person, so decided that if I gave her a lick it would somehow be bridging a cultural gap or something. It made sense at the time. Anyway, I could not get the taste out of my mouth.'
