by steve higgs
‘We want to hear from Tempest and Harper.’ A male reporter shouted.
‘Yeah.’ Said the man next to him.
‘This is an official statement to the press…’ Quinn tried. He was using his authoritative voice.
‘Yeah, but you’re boring.’ Pointed out another man.
‘Let Tempest speak.’ Called out a young female reporter, shivering visibly against the cold.
Tempest shrugged and stepped back to the centre of the podium as CI Quinn spun angrily on his heels and left.
As Tempest talked, I watched him. He was being utterly selfless, talking about me in the most generous terms while at the same time verbally defeating a man I desperately wanted to see fail.
I jumped lightly as something touched my left calf. I looked down to find a small Persian cat wearing a Swarovski collar. It was Kimberly’s cat. Bartholomew had taken it. I picked it up, surprised that it didn’t fight me. It began purring as I rubbed its fur.
‘Did you rescue her?' One of the reporters called out as Tempest was explaining his presence at the house.
‘Not in any sense of the word, no.' he replied. It felt like a lie to me. Had he not turned up I would be dead now. ‘By the time the police arrived, Amanda had already escaped from captivity, overpowered Mr. King and, together with her team,' he indicated Big Ben, Patience, and Jane, ‘she would most likely have brought about the gang's surrender.'
There was a snort of derision from CI Quinn who was now standing to one side fuming.
I felt Patience next to me. She leaned in close to my ear and whispered, ‘And remember that on top of all this adulation, he is also a little bit in love with you.’ My heart skipped. There was a lot to like about Tempest Michaels. Thinking about a non-professional relationship with him just made me think of Brett though. Where was Brett? Did getting kidnapped and nearly killed qualify as grounds to break my promise not to call him?
I was fairly sure it did. I would send him a text or an email telling him not to worry if he saw me on the news. That was bound to get a response even if it was a little manipulative.
I was going to win Brett back. Once he knew he had misunderstood seeing me with Big Ben, I was sure we would be back on track. Tempest Michaels though…
Unconsciously I was biting my lip as I watched him.
Sleep. Friday, November 4th 0315hrs
Tempest had wrapped the press interview up, stating that we had all endured a very long day, had been subjected to harsh treatment and degradation and needed to attend to our own needs. They had pressed him with more questions, but he had politely insisted that we were done for the night. There would be other opportunities to interview us.
His Dachshunds were in his two-seater sports car I learned as he made arrangements to get us home. He opened the door and they plopped out to greet everyone with an excited round of barking. He shushed them and put them back inside, explaining that he had come directly here from Cornwall and really needed to get them home. We told him to go, but of course, he insisted on staying until our transport home was fixed.
Jane had been reunited with her boyfriend who had been held behind the police cordon and she vanished with Simon almost before we realised what was happening. Tempest called after her to take the next day off and to only come back next week when she was ready.
The rest of us went into the back of a police van, the kind used for transporting prisoners. None of us cared, it was just a means to get home. Patience should have been the first drop as her house was nearest but at some point, this evening she had negotiated a second date with Big Ben and was going to his place. How they had the energy to even consider sex I had no idea. I was exhausted.
I waved them both goodnight from the van as they were dropped in the street by the solid looking security gate that led into Big Ben's building complex. Tempest had told me to take tomorrow off as well. I suspected that I would not wake up until late morning, but when I did, I would have tasks to perform. I had to reunite Kimberly with her cat for one. My sleep-deprived brain was telling me I had forgotten an important fact about her. Something I needed to do or something I needed to tell her. I couldn't work out what it was though and was certain it could wait until morning.
I needed a shower but elected to just put my sheets through the wash tomorrow instead. I was bone tired. My only concession, diverting my direct route from front door to bed, was to clean my teeth.
As I relaxed into my bed covers, Kimberly’s cat curled up on one corner of my duvet, my phone rang. I picked it up to switch it off. It was far too late to consider answering it. The caller was Tempest though so I swiped the screen to connect him.
‘Hi, Tempest.’
‘Amanda why is there a woman in my bed?’
Oops!
The End
The Witches
The Witches
of East Malling
Blue Moon Investigations
Book 7
Steve Higgs
Text Copyright © 2018 Steven J Higgs
Publisher: Steve Higgs
The right of Steve Higgs to be identified as author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved.
The book is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
‘The Witches of East Malling’ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organisations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.
Dedication
The growing success of Tempest Michaels would not be possible without the supporting cast that is growing around me. Among those I wish to thank here is Jacqueline Sweet, who is responsible for my cover art, and Shelagh Masters, who has been instrumental in checking my grammar. Also, of enormous help have been Richard Lauber, Bex Sears Byrne, Sandi Brown, Rita Wheeler, Jill Linden, and Deanna Pitman. My apologies to anyone I missed.
A special mention must go to The Fishman. A friend who was always there for me even though I wasn’t always there for him.
Table of Contents
Car Chase. Friday, November 4th 1722hrs
Pub O’clock. Friday, November 4th 1917hrs
New Client, New Case. Saturday, November 5th 0815hrs
Dead Dad. Saturday, November 5th 1030hrs
CrossFit. Saturday, November 5th 1500hrs
Remember, Remember. Saturday, November 5th 1900hrs
Bedtime. Saturday, November 5th 2342hrs
Running, Research and Roast Dinner. Sunday, November 6th 0653hrs
East Malling Golf Club. Sunday, November 6th 1304hrs
Death by Misadventure. Sunday, November 6th 1522hrs
Groomsman Duties. Sunday, November 6th 1812hrs
House Guest. Sunday, November 6th 2150hrs
A New Start. Monday, November 7th 0900hrs
The New Office. Monday, November 7th 0953hrs
Stake out. Monday, November 6th 1313hrs
Surveillance. Monday, November 7th 1404hrs
Day Time Drinking. Monday, November 7th 1542hrs
The Hag of Bluebell Hill. Monday, November 7th 1612hrs
Impressive. Monday, November 7th 1903hrs
Moving Day. Tuesday, November 8th 0900hrs
Lunchtime Surprise. Tuesday, November 8th 1300hrs
Hookers. Tuesday, November 8th 1402hrs
Buying Flowers. Tuesday, November 8th 1515hrs
Conversation with the Client. Tuesday, November 8th 18
07hrs
Early Morning Office Stuff. Wednesday, November 9th 0823hrs
Groceries with a Side of Violence. Wednesday, November 9th 0943hrs
Black eyes and Top Chat-up Lines. Wednesday, November 9th 1027hrs
Crop Circles. Wednesday, November 9th 1113hrs
Mick Cotton. Wednesday, November 9th 1302hrs
Death’s Door. Wednesday, November 9th 1327hrs
Maidstone Police Station. Wednesday, November 9th 1616hrs
A Date with Natasha. Wednesday, November 9th 1707hrs
Marked for Death. Wednesday, November 9th 2301hrs
Angry Wife. Thursday, November 10th 0705hrs
Coffee, Crop Circles and Hopeless Adoration. Thursday, November 10th 0855hrs
What the Coroner Thinks. Thursday, November 10th 1048hrs
My Spy. Thursday, November 10th 1342hrs
To Catch a Witch. Thursday, November 10th 1611hrs
Mum’s Birthday Party. Thursday, November 10th 1935hrs
Mick Cotton Lives. Friday, November 11th 0845hrs
Maidstone Police Station. Friday, November 11th 0900hrs
The Missing Piece. Friday, November 11th 1215hrs
Never Turn Your Back. Friday, November 11th 1612hrs
End Game. Friday, November 11th 1907hrs
Improvised Pub O’clock. Friday, November 11th 2012hrs
Postscript: The Phone Call No One Wants. Sunday, November 20th 2143hrs
Extract from Whispers in the Rigging
Trapped. Friday, November 25th 2200hrs
Car Chase. Friday, November 4th 1722hrs
I watched my knuckles turn white where they gripped the dashboard. I had both legs braced against the forward bulkhead of the car, the bit that separates the cockpit from the engine bay, knowing even as I did, that doing so meant I would most likely break them both if we did crash.
‘Hang on!' yelled Jagjit as he flung the steering wheel around. The car was right on the edge of its ability, the tyres screeching their complaint as they struggled for grip amid competing forces, some trying to propel the car forward, some trying to send it barrelling sideways. A spray of gravel was spat from the right rear tyre as he fought for control, but we were through the turn and picking up speed once more as he straightened out and smashed the pedal again.
I relaxed my grip on the roof handle above my head and risked a glance in the door mirror.
‘Are they still behind us?’ Jagjit asked, his voice betraying his nervousness.
I peered into the mirror once more. The road behind us was clear but I could only see as far back as the corner we had just come around. I watched, counting seconds in my head. One, two, three… Then the huge black car shot into view, its blocky nose looking like a threat bearing down on us.
‘Yup. And gaining fast.’ I settled back into my chair, but I was hardly relaxed.
‘There’s no way we are going to make it.’ Jagjit whined.
‘Just keep going, mate.' I needed to keep him calm, keep his thoughts on the road. At the speed he was driving, it could all go wrong so quickly if he took his attention away from the next bend, the next obstacle.
We were on Drythorn road, heading out of Maidstone, doing over eighty miles per hour where the limit was fifty. It was anything but safe, but we had no option but to keep going. We had a long stretch of straight now, maybe a mile where he could push his speed.
I glanced over my shoulder at the car behind us, it was gaining. The driver less concerned for his safety than Jagjit. I saw Jagjit glance in his rear-view mirror also, then utter a loud expletive. I was thrown forward against the seatbelt as he slammed on the brakes.
Less than one hundred yards ahead of us, a tractor had pulled onto the road, emerging from a field with a loaded trailer on the back. Jagjit's tyres were skipping over the road surface, once again fighting for grip as he tried to avoid hitting the slow-moving object unexpectedly in front of him.
Quite how the black four by four behind us had not hit Jagjit's back end was beyond comprehension. There was no way Jagjit could slow down in time, our speed was too great.
The tractor though was driving with one enormous wheel against the hedgerow, the other was in the middle of the road and the gap to the hedgerow on the other side was maybe just big enough for us to slip though. Jagjit had seen it too.
‘Dammit.' He swore as he flicked the steering wheel. With no choice but to try it, he lifted his foot from the brakes and, still doing forty miles per hour, he shot by the surprised farmer.
The driver's door mirror caught something solid in the hedge and smacked against the glass of his window, the sound loud in the quiet confines of his car. Then he was fishtailing back onto the road ahead of the tractor. I swung around to see if the larger black car would make it through.
‘I think we lost them.’ I told Jagjit.
His face grim, he didn't answer. He just pushed the pedal closer to the carpet and picked up speed again.
‘We are going to make it, mate. Don’t worry.’
He glanced across at me. He was sweating with worry.
‘It is only a fitting.’ I pointed out.
‘Tempest, you would not believe the strings my father had to pull to get us an appointment here at all. When I enquired they said they couldn’t fit me in until March. I mean, March! I am getting married in four weeks. So, when this cancellation popped up I knew it was my only chance. What's the time?'
I shot my cuff to check my watch. ‘1723hrs.’
‘Dammit.’
‘We are going to make it. They said they would stay open as long as you got there before they close. You have seven minutes and it is only three or four minutes away.’
‘They got through.’ He announced excitedly.
I looked behind to see Big Ben's huge Ford Ranger bearing down on us again. In it were Big Ben, Hilary, and Basic. The four of us were to be Jagjit's Groomsmen. I only found out this morning that he had proposed. He had only been dating the lady for a few weeks but apparently, that is all it took in their case.
After the battle with the Klowns, which seemed like a lifetime ago but was, in fact, only two weeks ago today, he had considered his options and popped the question. She had been present when they attacked and had been distraught when he sent her to safety so he could come back to fight the Klowns with Big Ben and me. It had been a dangerous situation and could have gone far less positively than it had.
Anyway, Jagjit and Alice fell into the category of whirlwind romance and they had set a date of November the 26th and now had to get a lot done in a short space of time. Jagjit thought he already filled me in but his email had never reached me in Cornwall. It was of no consequence now.
He had left work early today to organise his Groomsmen and we were at his parent's house chatting about what he needed us to do, where the wedding was going to be and a million other details when the call had come through to say Anton Ricoh, famed wedding outfitter, could see us. In a blind panic, we had dived into our cars to blast our way cross-country to Meopham where his boutique sat bordering the village green. I had heard of the man but knew nothing about him and would never consider spending the insane amounts he was going to charge.
I mused though that chances were most grooms just did as their bride instructed. I was curious to hear if his Indian parents, with their extended Indian family were happy about their youngest son marrying a Caucasian girl. I would not bring the subject up though, so would only find out if he volunteered the information. He had been married once before, a distant cousin that had been pushed into the arrangement as much as he had, I think.
It had lasted only a few months, but I got the impression he gave it an honest try. Now he was in love it seemed, and desperate to please the lady now firmly rooted at the centre of his life.
He slowed his pace as we came to Meopham village outskirts. It was not a big village, the green was directly ahead of us, so with four minutes to spare we were pulling up outside the double fronted shop.
Ins
ide the windows were immaculate suits, hats, gowns, dinner jackets and wedding suits displayed on mannequins. In quite small gold writing it boasted that the proprietor served at the Queen's appointment.
The doors swished open, being held by two well-dressed young gentlemen and we were welcomed inside.
Pub O’clock. Friday, November 4th 1917hrs
The fitting had eaten up only an hour. For the most part, it had been entertaining as the tailors had struggled with the dimensions of both Big Ben and Basic. I will admit the five of us look like a study in genetics when put in a line. Big Ben stands six feet and seven inches tall and has wide, muscular shoulders tapering to a thin waist because he is lean like a professional fitness model. I carry enough muscle to be called athletic and spend a reasonable amount of time in the gym but I also have a covering of body fat masking my abs because unlike Big Ben, I cannot drink beer and maintain a perfect figure. Hilary is as skinny as a rake. No matter what he wears, he looks like it is two sizes too big and hanging from his bony frame. Jagjit is slight but is arguably the most generic or normal looking one of us and then there is Basic. Basic is blocky, Basic is above average height and Basic is wide. If a witch turned a fruit machine into a human and gave it flesh, then Basic is what it would look like. He was maybe a couple of inches taller than me, but one could not tell because he was permanently slouched. I estimated that he weighed fifty percent more than me and it was almost all muscle.
When the fitting was done, Jagjit had come away happy. The suits would be made up in time for the big ceremony in four weeks, so we had thanked the gentlemen and left them to close up. It was the first time I had been fitted for clothes since I left the Army. Back then, there were appointed tailors that provided ceremonial uniforms and did a great side business in hand-fitted suits.
The drive back to Finchampstead had been at a more leisurely pace, the panic of missing out on something thankfully gone. It was now Friday evening so, as practice dictates, it was time to frequent the local alehouse and sink a few cold beverages.
