by steve higgs
Natasha approached at that moment clearing glasses, so Big Ben picked up his pint and took a swig rather than continue his soliloquy on African minge flavour. The rest of us followed suit. Hilary had stopped choking and was wiping regurgitated liquid off his hands, chin and the table in front of him looking as glum as ever.
Natasha moved further into the pub and Big Ben restarted. So anyway, she left after a spot of breakfast but after two cups of coffee, brushing my teeth three times and eating a bacon sandwich with extra brown sauce I can still taste her. I went to Tesco, bought mouthwash and gave that a go. I had convinced myself, after a further cup of coffee, that the taste must be gone, and I was now imagining it. Then Vicky turned up, because we had planned to have lunch and sex, and when she kissed me, she said, "You taste spicy. What have you been eating?" I conclude gentlemen, that African girls have spicy vaginas.'
‘I have to admit,' I volunteered, ‘That I have no experience from which to base an opinion.'
‘Me neither,' said Jagjit.
‘Sounds horrible,' said Hilary. I suspected that Anthea either didn't go for oral sex or really did but had instructed him to never speak of such things.
‘Hilary, it's not horrible,' replied Big Ben, ‘Licking a girl is bloody brilliant. Girls twitch and moan and they are generally so thankful afterward that you can pretty much do what you want with them. You should give your Mrs a lick occasionally. It might give her a whole new attitude.'
‘Ben, I don’t appreciate you talking about my wife’s vagina. It is the font from which my children have been born and is to be considered a non-topic.’
‘Mate. Seriously you need to stop worshipping the pussy. This is the crux of all your woes. That and the fact that you got married in the first place. Marriage crushes a man’s soul.’ This was not the first-time Big Ben had elected to rant on the poison of marriage.
‘You have no respect for women Ben, that is your problem,’ Hilary shot back.
‘I do respect them though. I respect them enough to tell them up front that I intend to ruin them for all other men and never call them again. Quite often they laugh because they don’t believe me, but what can I do about that? The way I see it, no relationship can last past six months and still be interesting. If I could get away with it, I would have them sign an agreement on the first date stating that we automatically break up at the six-month point if the relationship makes it that far. It would do away with daft aspirations of holidays in the sun, or gifts of jewellery just because they are a year older. Relationships go stale.’
‘How would you know, Ben?’ asked Jagjit, ‘You have never had a girlfriend that lasted more than a few weeks.’
‘That’s not true. I dated a girl for three years once.’
There was a moment of silence while we tried to take in this revelation. ‘How old were you at the time, Ben?' asked Hilary.
‘I was ten when we broke up, but don't tell me it doesn't count. I have had my heart broken just like everyone else and now I have learned my lesson it can never happen again.'
I needed to chip in my opinion, ‘I’m on the fence with this. A lot of what Ben says is true, relationships do lose their spark and the rampant sex bit does diminish.’
‘Is that true, Hilary?’ asked Jagjit, ‘You are the only married one here and no one else managed to score more than a couple of years when they did marry.’
We paused to give him time to answer, but as he opened his mouth to reply Big Ben butted in, ‘Come on mate, tell us when she last took it up the bum.’ Big Ben was laughing as he said it and didn’t duck as Hilary threw his beer mat to hit him in the head.
We all laughed.
Hilary picked up his pint for a swift draught. ‘Ben, you are without a doubt, and being completely fair to you, a complete and utter dick.'
‘You really are,’ Jagjit and I agreed.
‘Acknowledged. But it does not appear to be affecting my chances. Hey, Natasha, how about a shag?’ he asked as she passed him on her way back to the bar with empty glasses.
‘I’d rather sleep with a dog, Ben. You disease-ridden man-whore,’ Natasha dumped the tray of glasses on the bar and came back to pet the dogs, ‘Ben is a disease-ridden man-whore, isn’t he Bull?’ she cooed into his ear, cradling him on her ample chest and kissing his head. ‘Isn’t he? Yes, he is.’
Natasha placed Bull back on the floor and patted Dozer once more before going back to the bar and the customer waiting there. I watched her pert bottom wiggle away from me with a tinge of longing. The conversation turned to work and rugby as it usually did, and the beer continued to flow.
Call from Mrs. Cambridge. Saturday, September 25th 0730hrs
By 0730hrs on Saturday morning I had finished a good fifty-minute-long workout at the local gym and was heading home in the car with my muscles warm and twitchy. I had trained alone, which is less favourable and less enjoyable than training with a motivated partner, but very few want to join me that early on a Saturday. Most of the people I knew would be still in bed and staying there for a lie in. I had no set hours though, just tasks that I needed to complete and avenues to pursue to solve cases. I could lie in anytime I felt the need.
I got a shower and threw on a pair of jogging bottoms and a zip-through hoody. Breakfast was rolled oats in skimmed milk and a banana which was boring but healthy and the slow release carb would keep me going until mid-morning. The boys vacuumed up a bowl of kibble each and ran out into the garden, tiny legs feverishly propelling them across the lawn to chase away the pigeons. Content that they had secured their territory from aerial invaders they snuffled off across the grass and into the shrubbery to look for frogs.
There were still a lot of people on my list of people to interview, however the phone rang before I could consider whom to speak with first. ‘Blue Moon Investigation Agency. Tempest Michaels speaking. How may I help you?’ Professional, right?
There was a pause at the other end of the phone and the small sound of someone breathing before their voice came onto the line, ‘Hello?’ a woman’s voice, soft, perhaps pensionable age.
‘Hello. This is Tempest Michaels of the Blue Moon Investigation Agency. How may I be of assistance?
‘I really don’t know if you can help.’ The voice was wavering and unsteady as if frightened or unsure of itself.
I moved to the kitchen counter and grabbed up a pen and paper in case I needed to take notes. ‘Can I ask your name?' I enquired, wanting to make a connection. I kept my voice soft and even, hoping I would impart a soothing effect.
‘It’s just… I don’t know who else to turn to.’ No name given. No real information at all.
‘I pride myself on being completely confidential, madam. Whatever you tell me won’t go any further. If it helps, I have an office where we can meet,' I offered. The lady making the call might be a complete nutjob or a genuine client or even a witness to something that would be of interest to me. I had no way of knowing unless I pressed her for more information. There was little sound from the other end of the line, just the quiet sound of breathing and another noise which might have been a lip being chewed in deliberation. To me, it seemed as if the lady was trying to make a decision. Do I prompt her before she chickens out? Or do I stay quiet and let her get there by herself?
‘I think my grandson might be a vampire,’ she said all at once as if the words had been welling up and had finally forced their way out in one go. Grandson meant I was probably right about her age.
‘You most certainly called the right person then, Mrs…’
‘Cambridge, Vera Cambridge. My Grandson is Jim Butterworth, although he calls himself Demedicus Solomon now. Can you come? It is really quite urgent.’
‘What makes you think your Grandson is a vampire, Mrs. Cambridge?'
I listened then as Mrs. Cambridge launched into a long-winded summation of her grandson's increasingly odd behaviour with several claims that he used to be such a lovely boy. He wore dark clothing, he slept all day and stayed out at nigh
t, his curtains were never open and when she had insisted on drawing them open, he had bought paint and painted the window so that it was opaque. The list of typical sad fanboy wannabe vampire behaviour droned on until I was suddenly snapped back to reality.
‘Say that part again please.’
‘I found blood on his clothes. It doesn't show up all that well because his clothes are all black, but it turned the washing machine water red once a week ago, so I looked for it since then and when I took his clothes out of the laundry basket this morning there was blood again.'
My mind was spinning at high RPM now. This could be the guy. Just like that, I could have solved the Vampire murders case. I might not be getting paid for it, but this was a case I could not turn down. Okay Tempest, calm yourself a little. What are the chances that this is the same maniac out committing murder? Slim of course, but blood on the clothes is fairly damning evidence. Whose blood is it? If she found bloody clothes last night they could be from the latest victim. How much blood does it take to colour the water in a washing machine? Quite a bit was my guess.
‘Where are you now, Mrs. Cambridge?'
‘I am at home,' she replied, her voice still unsettled, but at least forming answers to my questions.
Now for the more important question, ‘Mrs. Cambridge, where is your grandson?'
‘Well, its daylight so he is asleep. All vampires must sleep during the day. Even I know that.’
‘Quite correct, Mrs. Cambridge, but specifically where is he asleep?'
‘He took to sleeping in my basement months ago when he became a vampire, so that is where he is now.'
Bingo.
‘Mrs. Cambridge, I need to point out that I am a private investigator that specialises in paranormal cases. My clients usually engage me to investigate circumstances that they believe are of supernatural or occult origin.' I wanted to see if the poor old dear did have a crazed murderer in her house, but it was far more likely that I was going to find a spotty teenager in love with Kirsten Stewart or with a Goth fixation and therefore getting paid seemed attractive. ‘I think I need to establish what it is you would like me to do.' Please don't say drive a stake through his heart, please don't say drive a stake through his heart – I repeated in my head like a mantra.
‘Can you do some tests to prove that he is a vampire?’
Easy, since obviously, he was not a vampire at all. ‘Yes Madam, I have a number of simple methods to determine if he is a vampire or not.'
‘Oh, good,’ she said, seeming quite relieved, ‘Then you can drive a stake through his heart, yes?’
Nuts.
‘We shall have to see, Mrs. Cambridge. We do need to discuss my fee, I'm afraid.' I explained my daily rate and that I was willing to waive it given that I had no actual investigation to conduct. We agreed on a fixed call-out charge much like one might pay to a plumber. I got her address, assured her that I would be there within the hour and got off the phone.
Time to calmly consider what to do? Let's suppose that the grandson in question is, in fact, The Vampire. Would that make him dangerous?
Probably.
In which case, do I want to alert the authorities? Not a good option I surmised because of two very good reasons: If I am wrong and it is just some fool in a costume and the myopic grandmother is finding ketchup, I will look like a royal idiot. If I am right, and it is him, I will get no credit for the capture as the police make the arrest and pose for the national news claiming their detective work led them to the quick apprehension etcetera.
So, what is my next move?
Make a cup of tea.
Outside the Cottage of Mrs. Cambridge. Saturday, September 25th 0825hrs
Mrs. Cambridge lived in a small cottage in nearby Aylesford, so the journey took no more than a few minutes and I pulled up well inside the hour I had allotted for thinking, preparing and collecting Big Ben. Her address placed her in the old part of town, the original village where the buildings were probably all several centuries old.
It was necessary to park around the corner as the houses had not been built with cars in mind and parking was at an absolute premium. Her house was a small cottage, perhaps two bedrooms and a bath upstairs, galley kitchen, small lounge and dining room downstairs, small basement underneath. It was certainly pretty, and the postage stamp front yard was well kept, giving the cottage the appearance of the quintessential English village dwelling.
‘Is there a plan?’ asked Big Ben as we got out of the car. I had explained what we were doing on the drive over once I had roused him from sleep, forced him to get dressed and bundled him into the car.
‘These are old buildings with only an internal access point to the cellar. If he is in there, he will have to come through us to escape. Once inside, we can quiz the old lady and get her out of the way. With her gone, we head into the basement looking mean and drag Mr. vampire-wannabe out of his crypt. If he looks likely to be the killer, we subdue him and call the fuzz.'
‘What am I getting paid again?’
‘Nothing. You are doing this because you love me and because you still owe me a hot blonde from about six years ago.’ Big Ben and I were both dressed in hard wearing gear: Cargo trousers, the sort made from a rip-stop material with plenty of utility pockets, ass-kicking, black combat boots, t-shirts and Kevlar vests. Big Ben was happy to come along on my busts because it gave him cool lines to use on the ladies, but he wasn't buying into the whole paranormal thing any more than I did. He wore the clothes because they look kinda cool and it meant he wouldn't ruin anything of his.
Before we went in, I briefed him, ‘Right mate, this guy might actually have killed three people, so we need to cover each other and take this seriously.' We were paused outside the house next door to Mrs. Cambridge dealing with equipment and formulating a brief series of planned responses to certain scenarios.
‘The chances this is actually the guy are slim, right?' asked Big Ben.
‘Instinct says that I am not that lucky and that this is going to turn out to be a spotty teenage scrotum that has watched too many Twilight movies. However, the lady was convinced that she had found blood on his clothes, so we proceed with caution.'
‘How about plan number one is that we ask where he is, drag him out and thump him?' Big Ben was totally serious. ‘Or, better yet, a swift knee to the ‘taters. Vampire or not he will drop just like anyone else.' Big Ben had a firm grasp of biology.
‘Not the best plan,’ I explained in the most neutral tone I could manage. Big Ben’s exuberance could be a problem at times. ‘If he is innocent that would be considered as ABH or worse. With luck, he will be willing to talk, and I can get the clothes from the old lady and test for blood simply enough as I have a kit in the car.’ I felt that we had been standing in the street for long enough and would begin to attract attention if we stayed out here much longer. The outfits did not exactly blend in.
Big Ben followed me through the gate and down the short path. Near out-of-control wisteria covered one side of the house and looped over the frame of the door, hanging down low enough in places that we both had to duck. Mrs. Cambridge opened the door before I could knock. She was stooped and probably closer to eighty than seventy. She had tightly curled silver hair and wore a granny dress. I have no idea what the correct term for the outfit is, but I see old ladies wearing them all the time. Anyway, she was a run of the mill old lady with a face like leather and a troubled expression.
‘Come in boys,’ she beckoned, turning back into the house herself.
Normally I would have introduced myself on the doorstep and shown a business card, but she seemed happy that we were the vampire hunters she had called. Following behind her, I felt a need to speak anyway, ‘Mrs. Cambridge, good morning. My name is Tempest Michaels, this is my associate, Ben Winters. Thank you for calling us.'
Inside the Cottage of Mrs. Cambridge. Saturday, September 25th 0832hrs
Mrs. Cambridge took very little time in getting to the task. In her hands, she held a p
lastic carrier bag from a National supermarket in which she had placed the blood-stained clothes she had found this morning. I pulled them out to inspect them using a tool rather than my hands to avoid putting my DNA on them.
There was a black shirt and a pair of dress trousers like one might find with a Dinner Jacket. It was hard to make out, but the fabric of the shirt was definitely stained with something. I licked my latex glove covered finger and rubbed at the fabric just a little. It came away with a distinctive pink tinge. It was sufficient to convince me it was blood. I placed the bag on the floor by the front door to collect on our way back out and asked Mrs. Cambridge to show us to her Grandson. She showed us the stairs down to the cellar and invited us to proceed.
I crept down the cellar stairs, not because I was concerned about going into the dark of course, but because I wanted to find Jim asleep or at least catch him by surprise. If he was down there, he was being very quiet, and all the lights were off. Big Ben waited at the top of the stairs to turn on the lights on my signal. I reached the last step. There was enough light coming from the stairwell to see the basic layout of the room, but little more than that. Mrs. Cambridge said his coffin, because of course he slept in a coffin, was against the far wall adjacent to the small window that should be letting natural light into the basement.
