by steve higgs
Owen Larkin lived in Crayford, a few miles and a town over from Dartford but on the same strip of river. His address I had obtained from reception at the Mill, they had been instructed by Mrs. Barker to give me their full cooperation. They did not, however, have a phone number for him, so I was going to wing it and try to catch him at home. It was 0855hrs, we had finished our tea, let the dogs into the garden for a quick pee and were heading to Crayford right now.
On LinkedIn Owen Larkin was still listed as working at Barker Mill in the role of Vice President of Business Development. I had no idea what that title meant, but my assumption was that since he had not updated his professional profile with a new role he had probably not yet been reemployed and was thus to be found at home. It was a guess, but as we pulled up to his address it was clear I was right.
Owen Larkin Interview. Friday, 8th October 0932hrs
I had a picture of Owen Larkin, so could match the face of the man stood stretching on his doorstep to the one in my hand. Dressed in sports gear, yet devoid of perspiration, he looked like he was about to go for a run.
It was 0932hrs on a Friday morning and the street was largely deserted, the absent cars having been used to take their owners to work. Owen Larkin lived on a street of small, but neat terrace houses. Front gardens were well kept and most had a short brick wall bordering the pavement with a well-clipped hedge framed just above it. Outside some houses, the hedge needed a trim and in others, there was no hedge, but in general, the street was pleasant and today the sun was shining down with a warm October radiance.
With a plethora of options for a parking spot, I parked right in front of the house with the passenger's door to the pavement. It was an unconscious act based on placing the lady against the kerb so that she did not have to step into the road and avoid cars. However, the accidental result was that Owen, who had been just setting off on his run, ground to a halt at the sight of the pretty blond waving at him.
‘Owen Larkin?’ she asked through her open window, already knowing the answer. ‘Could I trouble you for a minute of your time?’
His motion arrested, he was still moving toward the car and beginning to bend down when Amanda opened the door and stepped out. I laughed at how instantly hooked he had been. Amanda is stunning to look at and had probably shot him her best smile. I would have been equally hooked had she called out to me in the street. It might be fun to run an experiment to see how many men could ignore her.
While I was getting out of the driver's seat and coming around to join them on the pavement, Amanda took his hand and shook it. He was not tall, perhaps five feet nine inches. I knew his age to be twenty-nine, he had an MBA from a London Business School and he was single, so far as I could tell.
‘Good morning.’ Amanda said. ‘We need to ask you a few questions about the Mill, shall we go inside?’ Amanda had put an arm out to guide him back towards his house and had asked the question as if it were happening anyway and his acquiescence was a foregone conclusion. As it turned out she was right, and he allowed her to guide him to his house.
‘This is my colleague, Tempest Michaels.’ she said, indicating to me as we went into his house. ‘I am Amanda Harper.’
‘Err, hello.’ he replied weakly. ‘What did you say this was about?’
‘Mostly this is about Barker Mill, Mr. Larkin. Thank you for agreeing to answer our questions.'
‘But,’ he began, but she cut him off before he could catch up with himself and realise he had not agreed to anything of the sort.
Amanda had flipped open a notepad, as had I. She clicked her pen to make the nib appear and fixed him with a smile once more. ‘You were dismissed from your job on September 2nd. Is that correct?’
‘Um, yes.’
‘Can you tell me about that, please? What led to the dismissal?'
‘I’m sorry.’ Owen started. ‘Why is it that I need to answer your questions today?’ It appeared that the spell Amanda casts on men is temporary as Owen had found his brain now.
‘We are investigating the murder of George Barker on behalf of Mrs. Barker.' I replied. He turned to look at me properly for the first time.
‘You think he was murdered?’
‘Mrs. Barker does, and she has hired Amanda and me to determine how, and then who perpetrated the crime.'
He seemed to consider this for a moment. ‘I read that it was natural causes.’ He said more to himself than to us. He was deep in thought. Then a lightbulb came on in his head, his face showing it as surprise. ‘So, you are here because you think I could have done it.’ He exclaimed with worried excitement.
‘Not exactly.' Amanda answered. ‘You could have cause for grievance and that might act as a motive. We are simply being thorough though and need to speak with you to eliminate you from our enquiries.' It was a textbook answer designed to alleviate any worry that we might be on to him. We needed him to talk for exactly the reason Amanda just said, but he could be guilty, as much as anyone else could at this stage. ‘Can you tell us about your role at the Mill? You worked directly for Brett Barker, didn't you?'
She was trying a new tack, getting him talking about a safer subject.
‘Yes, I did. Brett and I were working on big plans for the future…’ he stopped mid-sentence.
‘Go on.’ Amanda encouraged.
‘I’m afraid that is all I can tell you.’ he answered.
‘Why is that?’ she asked, probing for more. His reluctance to talk about his role at the Mill was suspicious.
‘Is Brett looking to close the Mill?’ I asked directly.
Instead of answering he closed his lips tight and mimed locking them with a key and throwing the key away. Amanda and I both made a note on our pads.
Amanda changed tack again. ‘How long have you known Brett?’
‘Since Eton. Since we were eleven. We met on our first day in fact.' Back on safer ground, he had started talking.
‘And you followed him to Barker Mill?’
‘Brett and I had similar interests. We went to the same Oxford college, read the same Bachelor's degrees and he offered me a job long before we graduated.'
‘How did your dismissal come about?’ she asked, swinging back to her original question.
‘I was framed for an accident I had nothing to do with and fired without the chance to defend myself. That is what happened.’ snapped Owen, finally displaying some emotion. Clearly, the incident still angered him. It was my experience that people, in general, like to talk about anything unfair that ever happens to them. They will tell anyone, encouraging the listener to agree that they were treated unfairly as if this in some way confirms that they were indeed always in the right. Owen was no different, so for the next five minutes he talked animatedly about how he had no idea how the crane safety lockouts came to be in the boot of his car, and that he never even went onto the shop floor to have been able to get them and had no knowledge of the equipment so didn't even know what they did. He had some colourful things to say about the former Mr. Barker, pausing at one point so that Amanda and I could write down, "miserable old wanker". A term that Owen was very definite about.
‘You received a healthy severance did you not?’ I asked.
‘I did. But only when I threatened to sue for unfair dismissal. It was Brett that sorted me out. He just went over the old man’s head.’
‘Brett Barker?’ Amanda confirmed.
‘The very man.’
‘Tell me about Brett Barker, Owen.’ He turned to face me when I spoke.
‘Brett Barker is a visionary. He is the right man to lead the firm to its new future.' He had said firm, not mill I noted.
‘What future would that be, Owen?’ I asked.
Owen closed his mouth and did the thing with the lock and key on his lips again. The impression I got was that he knew he had said too much. Then he changed his mind and spoke, ‘That is not for you to know.'
‘Why is that?’ pressed Amanda.
Owen refused to answer.
Amanda and I continued to ask questions for almost an hour. When at one point he seemed to be getting impatient, Amanda asked him if he would be a darling and make some tea. When she smiled at him, he had decided that tea sounded a great idea and had scampered off to his kitchen. This gave Amanda and I a few moments to converse.
‘What do you think?' she asked me once we heard noises coming from the kitchen.
‘I think he was innocent of the crime he was dismissed for but is up to something now. He and Brett were colluding on something. I heard rumour that he planned to close the Mill because it is losing money. How much truth there is to that I cannot yet tell. It looks run down though. The equipment is old, the staff are old. At least the ones I met were.
Amanda opened her mouth to speak but was silenced by my phone ringing. The number that came up was a Dartford prefix but not one my phone recognised. I answered, ‘Blue Moon Investigations. Tempest Michaels speaking.'
‘Please hold.' Came the response, after which the voice went away, leaving me with little choice but to hold.
After a second or so, and just when I was considering not holding at all, I was connected with a new voice. This one sounded young, engaging and female, where the former voice had just sounded grumpy, old and womanly. ‘Mr. Michaels?'
‘Yes. Speaking.’
‘I am calling on behalf of Mr. Barker to advise you that you have a meeting this afternoon at one o'clock. The meeting will last thirty minutes. Please ensure you arrive early so that you do not miss your slot.'
‘Very good.’ I replied.
‘Thank you, Mr. Michaels. The meeting will take place in Mr. Barker's office. You can get directions to it from reception. One o'clock. Please be punctual.' she disconnected. There was no attempt to get my opinion on whether the meeting time suited me. It seemed likely that Brett Barker liked to play power games and did this to everyone. I had met people like him before and had always found them quite ridiculous. I wanted to meet with him though, so ducking the meeting or turning up deliberately late, would most likely not work in my favour. I had no interest in playing his games. If there was indeed a game to play because he was involved in this mystery, then I would win later, not now.
Chat with Poison. Friday, 8th October 1100hrs
We left Owen at 1035hrs and went back to my office. I left Amanda there to do some research and go through emails so that she could familiarise herself with the enquiries I receive. I excused myself and set off to attend to a task for myself.
Just around the corner from my office is an occult bookshop that sells rare books, graphic novels, film and TV memorabilia, and comics. Basically, it sells anything that had a tangible link to the paranormal world. The bookshop is called Mystery Men and is run by Frank Decaux, a small, mousy man with the heart of a lion. I had discovered his bravery quite recently when he accompanied Big Ben and me on a case that put us into direct contact with a cult of vampire-wannabe idiots that had promptly tried to kill us. Frank was nevertheless completely mad and believed everything supernatural existed with a foaming-at-the-mouth fervour.
He has an assistant in the shop who goes by the name Poison. Her real name is Ivy Wong, she is nineteen years old, super-hot and believes I saved her life when I blundered blindly into a serial killer just as he was about to bite out her throat a few days ago. Poison had kissed me with great passion a day or so before, and then immediately after that incident and had made it very clear that I was to use her as my sex toy whenever I wanted to. While this seemed like an offer I should not refuse, the age gap bothered me, and I was already drawn to other women. For several days I had tussled with the idea of just succumbing to her advances, but the decision to pursue Hayley dictated that I had to say no to Poison. At least for now. The two ladies worked less than fifty metres from each other and my life was complex enough without trying to sleep with two ladies at the same time.
An unpleasant task ahead of me, I headed to the bookshop to speak with Poison and somehow let her down gently. On my way, I wondered if she had ever had a man tell her no before. Would she cry? Would she kick me in the nuts? Neither eventuality was palatable, but before I could formulate how to phrase my thoughts on the matter, I was at the building that housed the shop and heading up the narrow stairs that led to it.
Poison was behind the counter reading a book. There were no customers in the shop and she smiled at me as I came through the door.
‘Hi, Tempest.’ She beamed.
‘Good morning, Poison. All alone up here?’
‘Frank is out at an auction, some rare book he wants.’ She moved away from the counter and came towards me. ‘It does mean we have some privacy though.’
‘That is what I came here to discuss actually.' I said, keeping my tone flat. ‘I cannot give you want you want I'm afraid.' I had to get the words out before the sexlicious strumpet coming towards me closed the distance, got her hands on me and made me forget the purpose of my visit. She came to rest just inches from me and tilted her head up to meet my gaze.
‘What do you mean, Tempest?’ she asked, disappointment in her voice.
‘I cannot be in a relationship with you.’
‘Why ever not?’ she asked.
‘For several reasons.' I answered and then slumped against a bookcase as I tried to arrange my thoughts into a coherent reason that would make sense to her. ‘Most of which are confusing even to me. Our age difference bothers me, I guess that is the biggest reason. I am old enough to be your father.'
‘My father is fifty-six, Tempest and therefore old enough to be your father. And I am not a little girl. Do I look like a little girl?' She pushed her shoulders back as she said it which inevitably pushed her boobs out.
‘No, you most assuredly do not. But the age gap is still there, and I cannot get away from it. But beyond that, I am interested in someone else.' I realised as I said it that I meant Amanda and not Hayley. There were other reasons why I should not become involved with Poison such as she worked for Frank and I felt there it would be poor form to fool around with his employee. It would be fooling around too I acknowledged. Sex with Poison would most likely be incredible, her body suggested it would be, but I could not envisage a relationship forming afterward.
‘So, Mr. Michaels.' Poison started, taking her time over what she had to say. ‘I turn twenty in a few weeks and will no longer be a teenager. The age gap will remain the same but the concern you have should diminish as I age, and it becomes less significant.' She took my right hand in both of hers. ‘So here is the deal. I will leave you alone for now so that you can let your current love interest play its course. I am not going anywhere though. I owe you my life.' I opened my mouth to speak but she silenced me with a hand to my mouth. ‘I do, Tempest. Despite your protestations and I plan to repay you. You can have me anytime you want me. Call me, come find me, send a note for me. Whatever you choose to do, when you want me, I will be your plaything.'
The voice from my pants was going nuts but I could not think of anything to say. I worried that I might have dribbled a bit but also worried that the tightening sensation coming from below my belt was going to be visible to her and that she might think it was there as a demonstration of wilful intent on my behalf. It was entirely involuntary. A chap simply cannot listen to an attractive lady tell him to get it here and not have his body react.
Poison sighed, reached up to put her hands behind my head and kissed me lightly on the lips. For a moment, I thought she was going to try to deepen the kiss, but she pulled away and took a step back.
‘I should go.’ I said, thankful that she hadn’t noticed the uncomfortable bulge in my trousers.
‘I’ll see you soon enough, Tempest. You might want to take care of that before you go out in the street.’ she said nodding her head at my groin.
Bugger.
Back at the office a few minutes later, everything south of my belt was back to normal and calm. Amanda was sitting behind my desk using the computer. She looked up as I came in.
‘We should go.’ I said, ‘We have an hour to get to Dartford but need to park and get through reception at the Mill etcetera, and who knows what traffic might be doing.’
‘Yes. Time to go.’ She picked up her handbag, grabbed her phone from the desk where it had been sitting next to the mouse and stood up. ‘You get some weird emails, Tempest.’
‘Yes, I do.’
Barker Mill with Brett Barker. Friday, 8th October 1250hrs
The drive to Dartford had been uneventful. We were once again tucked into the close confines of my little, red Porsche Boxster but it only took twenty-three minutes to get to the Mill. On the way, she had asked me more about how I thought she and I would operate together, whether we would take separate cases or work on singular cases together. I had expressed that we should let the workload and the nature of each case dictate how we needed to operate. Some cases would be simple and could be dealt with by either one of us. Other cases would require a lot of research, such as the death of Mr. Barker and we would pull together to try to solve them.
Amanda had read through the day’s emails. It was the first time she had seen them, although I had probably described some of them to her before. She seemed a little surprised at the stupidity of some of our potential clients.
Now at the Mill again, I parked closer to the reception entrance than I had the day before. The sky was overcast, robbing us of our shadows and it threatened to rain.
