Blue Moon Investigations Ten Book Bundle

by steve higgs

  Mother got the conversation moving again, ‘Tempest, why don’t you tell Debbie what you are working on at the moment.’

  ‘Mmm, yes, please. Tell me all about it,' agreed Debbie.

  I spent the next few minutes regaling Debbie and my parents with tales of the recent past: The Cranfield’s Poltergeist, my interest in the Maidstone Vampire murders and the possibility that there was someone dressing up as a Sasquatch and roaming around Bluebell Hill. Debbie replied with oohs and aahs in a few places to indicate she was listening but kept on chowing her food without looking up. By the time dinner was done, mother’s cheeks had a healthy glow from the wine and the plates of food were all but empty.

  Debbie was picking the last few morsels from her plate. ‘That was excellent, Mary. The best meal I have eaten in ages.’

  ‘Well, thank you, dear. You are very welcome. Tempest is an excellent cook; you should have him prepare a meal for you sometime.’

  ‘Mother,’ I warned.

  ‘That sounds nice,’ Debbie said, smiling at me.

  ‘Doesn't it?' I agreed, not meaning a word of it. Debbie was pleasant enough, but I wasn’t attracted to her. So far, she hadn’t shown anything more than a passing interest in me though, so perhaps I was concerned for no reason.

  ‘Michael give me a hand to clear these things away,’ my mother insisted as she stood and grabbed the plates and dishes nearest to her. I began to get up, but mother flapped her arms at me and told me to stay and entertain our guest.

  As they left the room, Debbie leaned forward as if she intended to whisper something to me, but as I leaned my ear toward her unthinkingly, she stuck her tongue in it and grabbed my head while simultaneously grabbing my upper thigh with her other hand.

  Quite actually shocked, I leapt from my chair, hit my testicles on the edge of the table, twitched at the sudden jolt of pain in my lower abdomen and knocked over my glass of wine. Trying to stand straight and to not cup my bruised nuts while ignoring the cramping pain in my gut, I watched with horror as Debbie swivelled towards me. She licked her top lip meaningfully, place a hand either side of her chest, pushed her giant boobs together and slowly parted her legs. If performed by a more attractive woman, the act might have me dribbling and hoping my penis was not straining the front of my trousers. Performed by Debbie, my entire genitalia was hurriedly throwing belongings into a suitcase and grabbing its passport.

  Mother stepped into the room from the kitchen, took a sharp breath and vanished again backward, audibly bumping into dad as she went. I could hear a brief and hurried under-the-breath discussion before mother loudly announced, ‘I have pudding. I hope you are both hungry.' I groaned internally with the prospect of dealing with this later. Mother had caught the briefest glimpse and would have seen Debbie shoving her boobs at me with her legs open and me holding my crotch. Chances were, she was already counting how much wool she had in the cupboard to knit the clothes for our first-born child.

  Debbie took her hands away from her boobs and swivelled back towards the table just as mother appeared with a steaming sponge-pudding concoction and dad followed with a tub of ice-cream, on which was balanced a scoop, and in his other hand a jug of steaming custard; all bases covered.

  The dogs were doing their very best to trip them both, so I grabbed first one collar and then the other to haul them out of the way. They could have an empty bowl to lick between them, but I wanted their waistlines to stay where they were. Snagging the dogs reminded me that my nuts still hurt. Mostly, I wanted to curl into a foetal position and nurse them, but decorum dictated that I take a helping of pudding and enjoy it, so I did. It was good, really good, but I swear I could feel my waist expanding as the calories hit my bloodstream.

  Spoons scraped against bowls and dogs danced beneath chairs until I nodded to mother and she took both her bowl and Dad’s and placed them on the floor. The boys, rather than take one bowl each, plunged together into the first before switching to the second and then back to the first to make sure they were completely clean.

  Mum straightened up and appeared to have had a thought, ‘Will you be in tomorrow, Tempest?'

  ‘In and out I guess, mother. Why?’

  ‘Your Father and I were planning to pick chestnuts and there’s such an abundance of sweet chestnuts trees on the green in Finchampstead that we decided to go there for them. I thought we might pop in to warm up with a cup of tea. Or if you are out, we could take the dogs out to collect nuts with us.’

  It seemed reasonable to me. Sunday ought to be a day where I relax, read a paper, roast a chicken and watch TV, but it was likely that I would be continuing my investigation into The Vampire case instead. Making sure the dogs went out for a good walk without me being involved sounded helpful.

  ‘Do you like chestnuts, Debbie?' Mum asked. ‘Maybe you and your children should come with us, we can all go to Tempest's house afterward.'

  Oh, for heaven's sake!

  ‘Mother, I am sure Debbie has plans already and has no need to see my house.' Please be busy, please be busy, please be busy.

  Debbie seemed to think about it for a while before speaking, ‘Charlie has a party at a friend’s house tomorrow, the other kids are with their father and I have lunch with friends organised after church. I could cancel though.’

  ‘No, don’t do that, Debbie,’ I implored.

  For once I got lucky and Debbie decided that she was otherwise engaged for the suggested event. The conversation ranged for a while, but it was not long before I felt it was acceptable for me to make my bid for freedom. I bid them all goodbye, kissed mother lightly on the cheek, shook dad’s hand and waved to Debbie. I was unsure about Debbie’s intentions although her display at the table suggested they involved sweaty sex and little else.

  An hour later, I was back at home on my sofa with my feet curled under me and a dog on my lap. The six o’clock news came on followed by the local news that I wanted to see. The first report was the incident in Aylesford. I had suspected it might be and wanted to prepare myself for the inevitable phone call. The report showed the outside of the house and footage of police standing next to the crime scene barrier tape. All the vampire-wannabes were gone but there was an excellent shot of Big Ben and me sitting in handcuffs on the wall outside the house. My phone rang as I had known it would. I pressed pause on the TV remote and answered the call without needing to look at the screen to see who it was.

  ‘Good evening, mother.’

  ‘Tempest!’ she shrieked. ‘I just saw you and that big friend of yours, what his name?’

  ‘Big Ben.’

  ‘Yes, Big Ben, on TV and handcuffed. What on earth were you doing this time?' I opened my mouth to speak but was cut off, ‘No, never mind. I don't want to hear anything about it. This is what I get for letting you join the Army. None of the other ladies at the church have their boys on TV in handcuffs. Must you ruin my reputation?'

  ‘Mother,’ I replied in as patient a tone as I could muster, ‘I responded to a little, old lady who asked for assistance. There were a few complications and the police showed up. The cuffs were taken off as soon as the lady told the police her story.’

  ‘Well, that’s not what it looked like.’

  ‘Mother. If the ladies in the church ask you about this, you can tell them I was mistakenly arrested while aiding a pensioner. I am sure you can put some spin on this to make you look even more beneficent than usual.’

  ‘Hmm. We shall see,’ she replied grumpily.

  I could tell she had run out of steam, so I bid her goodnight and disconnected. Then pressed play and watched the rest of the news. The coverage was not extensive but referred to a vampire gang and suspected ties to the recent murders. The report was delivered by an on-the-scene team with a suitably serious tone.

  The report ended with a short clip of Chief Inspector Quinn making a statement in which he said that human blood had been found on articles of clothing in the house and that a suspect had been taken into custody. He finished by speculati
ng that he expected a swift conclusion to the case now.

  I wondered about that.

  Late Night Cabbie. Sunday, September 25th 0156hrs

  Harold McBeak had worked as a taxi driver for thirty-seven years, clocking up the most recent anniversary just a few days ago. During that time, he had changed cars eighteen times, worked for five different companies and been offered sex, or a quick fiddle, as payment by drunk girls unable to pay their way home more times than he cared to remember. Only on one occasion had he succumbed to the girl's advances and had never done so again because he felt so dirty afterward.

  He thought on that now as he waited in line across the road from Tequila Sunshine nightclub. The late crowd leaving town were the worst, you never knew what you were going to get, but he rarely had a fare that proved uneventful. Sometimes they vomited in the back of the car, he had learned long ago to have wipe clean seats fitted. Sometimes he would pick up a horny couple and they would practically have sex in the back of the car. Sometimes a group of young men would decide they didn’t need to pay for their ride, so he kept an equalising stick under his seat. He couldn’t make them pay, especially once he had made one or two of them bleed, but he could drive away believing that they would think twice before pulling the same stunt again. The equalising stick was a shortened pickaxe handle which tucked neatly alongside his seat and was invisible from the outside. It was always clean because following any use he would discard it as damning evidence. So, bring them on, he thought to himself. Let them try to not pay. Me and my old friend the equaliser will keep the score even.

  Harold sat waiting his turn in the taxi rank outside Tequila Sunshine nightclub hoping that he would get a fare that was none of the above and perhaps just fell asleep instead.

  He watched as a young man of perhaps twenty-five approached the cab in front, leaned down, exchanged a few words and got into the rear of the vehicle. The car pulled away, making Harold's cab the one at the front of the queue. Glancing down at the clock on his dashboard, Harold idly observed that it was 0234hrs as his back door opened. He glanced over his left shoulder to see a couple get in. The girl was inappropriately dressed for the time of year and outside temperature, wearing a thin top with a spaghetti halterneck strap and a micro denim skirt. Harold couldn't see her shoes but expected them to be stupidly tall. As she scooted along to let her boyfriend/ male companion/ tonight's shag in, she flashed a brief exposure of white cotton between her legs. Harold looked away self-consciously, but the girl was oblivious.

  ‘Shut the door, its freezing,’ she demanded of the man settling next to her.

  In the rear-view mirror, the man was hard to see. He tucked into the corner of the car behind the driver, but Harold could tell he was big. Really quite big. Certainly, twice the size of the girl. He was well dressed in a suit made from a dark material, possibly blue, but it was too dark to make out much detail and the man's face was hidden behind Harold's headrest.

  ‘Chart Sutton please,' the girl requested from the back seat. She was looking at her companion and leaning into him. The door clicked shut as she spoke again, ‘I'll give directions as we get closer.'

  There seemed to be little need for conversation, so Harold swung his attention to the road, checked his mirror and pulled out. As he accelerated down the hill towards the A229 he glanced into his rear-view mirror, the couple were locked at the lips, the man had a hand inside her top and hers were in his hair. Better than vomit Harold thought as he turned left and joined the frugal late-night traffic heading out of the city.

  Early Morning Surprise. Sunday, September 26th 0817hrs

  Bull and Dozer exploded into a cacophony of barking which brought me from peaceful slumber to instant disorientated alertness. The clock told me it was 0817hrs. Too early for anything mundane to be happening and then the next series of thumps and doorbell chimes told me what it was that had woken the dogs and got them so excited.

  I sat up more fully in bed. The dogs were still barking, both facing the bedroom door, tails wagging like crazy.

  ‘Okay, Okay. Enough now chaps, I'm up. Let's go see who it is.' Obedient as ever, they paid no attention to my request to cease their noise and kept right on barking.

  I fumbled for sweatpants and a t-shirt and had to lean over the dogs to open the bedroom door while they were head-butting it in their haste to get out. Tiny legs propelling them along the hallway, they got about four yards before they had to stop at the top of the stairs because Dachshunds don't go downstairs. The length of their legs and depth of the steps means that they bash the first step down with their chin before their feet can find it. They learn this very young, usually by falling down the stairs.

  Scooping them up, one under each arm, I headed down the stairs just as the doorbell went once more. The dogs barked their reply but stopped as I gave them a gentle squeeze and a shush.

  ‘Just a minute.' I said to the shadowy visitor at my door. The frosted glass gave no indication of gender, age or race. It had to be someone I didn’t know, or they would have called out to me or phoned me. I shooed the dogs out the back door so that I could answer the front without the visitor getting two daft dogs clawing at their legs. The boys would run around the side of the house and strain their heads against the gate to bark once more at whoever might be there, but that was still a better solution. I left the back door open a crack so that they could get back in.

  Heading back to the front door I ran through different scenarios in my head. This is my personal address, not my business address, so only friends and family have it. Although of course addresses are not that hard to come by, so I supposed that it could, in fact, be anyone. Why though would anyone be so insistent on getting my attention this early in the day? Had I forgotten to do something? Was I supposed to be somewhere?

  Oh, my God. Someone has died!

  It was going to be a relative on the door that knew my address, but not my phone number and they were here to tell me mum or dad was in the hospital or the morgue. Having now filled myself with dread, I opened the door.

  PC Hotstuff was stood illuminated in the early morning light outside. I silently acknowledged that my most recent fantasy woman was waiting to be invited in and prayed that any remaining morning glory wasn’t visible.

  ‘There has been another murder. In fact, there has been a double murder with the same M.O. as the previous Vampire killings,' PC Hotstuff said. She was still outside, the cool air spilling in around my feet. While my sleep addled brain fought for something intelligent to say, the voice from below reminded me that he didn't like the cold and now was not a great time to appear to be the size of a baby sweetcorn.

  ‘Come in, please,' I beckoned and stood back to allow her passage. She crossed over the threshold and I shut the cold back out where it belonged while failing, but really trying, to not check out her bum. PC Hotstuff was not in uniform and the transformation from a clearly attractive woman in a dowdy and unflattering uniform into a sex goddess in jeans and a jacket was startling. With no effort at all, she was stunning. Her hair was loose and curled a little at the edges as it hit her collar. Her clothes appeared new: blue jeans, tan, calf-length boots with a chunky heel and matching short, tan leather jacket. The jacket was by Karen Millen, I could tell from the buttons, which meant it was neither cheap nor stupidly expensive, suggesting that she gave thought to her appearance, but didn't spend without consideration. She carried no handbag and wore very little makeup - just a swipe of mascara and she looked fantastic.

  Worried that I might start to drool, I pushed by her into the kitchen as she hesitated in the entrance lobby. ‘Please, come through,' I invited as I switched on the light.

  ‘Can I offer you tea?’ I had no coffee in the house, which I was suddenly regretting.

  Her answer of, ‘Yes, please. If you have sweetener,' gave me cause to shake that pointless concern from my mind.

  ‘Milk?’

  ‘Just a splash. Thank you.’

  ‘It's skimmed milk, is that ok? It's all
I have.' Skimmed was the only form of milk I had drunk for years, the result of a period in Bosnia many years ago where all we had for months was UHT (Ultra Horrible Tasting) milk because it would last. We were in the mountains overlooking Sarajevo in the winter, so a hot brew was very welcome, but the war-torn country had no supplies to offer. When we finally got back to somewhere with real milk it had been skimmed or nothing and to me, it had tasted like nectar from the gods. Since then, any other milk was unpalatable.

  Anyway, Amanda said she was fine with it and given the choice of it or nothing I might never know if she was just being polite while secretly wishing she had opted for water. The kettle began to bubble behind me as I leaned on the counter. The dogs were sniffing about her feet and she bent down to see them.

  ‘Be careful they don’t jump up at your face,’ I advised. She looked up smiling. ‘They can be a little excitable around new people and might nip your nose if they can get close enough. You are certainly in danger of being licked,’ I explained.

  ‘They are wonderful. What are their names?' I told her which was which as she continued to coo and pet them, their tails whizzing like metronomes on acid. The kettle boiled, and I made two cups of tea. I was up now, so the caffeine would do no harm and I could hit the gym early. Of course, I had coolly still not asked why she was at my house. The voice from my pants was certain it was just for sex and was begging me to get on with it.

  ‘So, a double murder?’

  ‘Yes. Out near Chart Sutton.' Bull was on his back letting her rub his belly.

  Distracted by my dumb dogs she had fallen silent again. ‘Chart Sutton, you say?'

  ‘Sorry,' she said standing up. ‘I'm a sucker for small dogs.' She took the tea as I offered it to her and took a small sip before wrapping her hands around it as if to warm them up. ‘Like I said, there was a double homicide. Maybe I can help you catch the killer.' She locked eyes with me as she finished that sentence, holding my gaze for a few seconds before looking down to her cup as she took another sip.