by steve higgs
‘Pretty much.’
Annoyingly, that tactic would probably work for him.
‘I need some sleep.’ I announced. ‘Come on boys.’ I gathered up the dogs, carried them up to bed and left Big Ben to sort himself out, he knew where the guest bedroom was.
Drifting off to sleep, I wondered what this was all about and how long it was going to take me to solve the riddle I faced.
Murder. Wednesday, November 23rd 0715hrs
The day started with an unwelcome phone call. I didn’t recognise the number when it rang so gave my standard answer. ‘Blue Moon Investigations. Tempest Michaels speaking.’
‘Tempest, this is Alan Page. There’s been a development.’ He said the word development very carefully like it wasn’t the word he wanted to use.
I hedged a bet, ‘Who’s dead?’ I was guilty of sometimes forgetting that people didn’t like to talk about death. I had grown hardened to it through my almost two decades in the Army. Iraq, Afghanistan and a few other places I had been deployed to were as unpleasant as you might imagine. I wasn’t too worried about Alan though, he would have endured much the same experiences.
At the other end, Alan licked his lips before saying, ‘Julia Jones.’ The name hit me like a slap to the face.
My question contained only one word. ‘How?’
‘They found a suicide note in her office. She washed up a few miles downstream in her car.’
A suicide note. I didn’t believe it for a second. They had killed her. Whether it was to get rid of her as part of their plan or as punishment for hiring Big Ben and I, there was no way of telling.
‘How do you know already?’ I asked when I realised it was too early for him to even be at work. I was only up because I had wanted to go for a run.
Alan had an answer for me. ‘I woke up to a message from Dave Saunders. I guess they found out at some point in the night.’
‘Alan, I will see you at the Dockyard. I’ll be there soon after opening time.’
When the phone disconnected, I stood in my kitchen staring at the wall. I started to tell myself that they had escalated to murder but caught myself. I doubted Julia was the first person they had killed.
‘Hey, man, what’s up?’ Big Ben asked as he wandered into the kitchen.
I was gripping the edge of the counter with my head bowed. Now I had to tell him what had happened.
He did not take the news well. The thing with Big Ben is that he genuinely believes he is performing a service for the ladies he sleeps with. He gives them the best sex of their life as far as he is concerned, providing one golden memory for them to treasure for all time. I would accuse him of being hugely egotistical, but I worry that he might be correct. He might go through them at a rate unprecedented outside of the adult film industry and not even try to learn their names, but on some level, he still connects with them.
He had slept with Julia Jones to bribe her into giving the two of us jobs. It had cost her dearly and he felt guilty about it. The guilt manifested as anger and he was ready to split heads.
When he left my house, he was fired up for finding the river entrance. We both really wanted to get back to the Dockyard tonight, but we couldn’t blow off Jagjit’s stag party for it. The draw of the case, the thirst for blood if you will, was beckoning. Neither one of us felt like going out socially right now, but our next chance to sneak around the Dockyard in search of the entrance to the tunnels was going to have to wait until Thursday. This morning he was going to look for the river entrance while I scoped out the Dockyard itself. Using the map, we had narrowed the entrance points down to a handful of options. Between us we needed to obtain hard evidence, like video footage maybe, of a criminal operation so we could force the police to take notice.
My plan, in fact, was to present my proof to the CEO of the Dockyard, Alex Jordan. He could call the police himself and remove any danger that they might ignore it because it was me calling.
Alone in my house, there was nothing constructive I could do this early, so I went for a run. I had been slacking on the exercise front and my guilty conscious wouldn’t shut up about my fat belly. I argued that I had a distinctly bruised abdomen from the beating last night. In reply, the gym instructor in my head called me several non-PC names and made me put my running shoes on. Outside, clouds had cleared overnight leaving a thick frost on the cars and hedgerows. It sparkled where the streetlamps touched it but made the pavement a little dicey.
Rather than be defeated, I ran in the road. Early morning traffic around the village was light though there were a few cars I needed to dodge. The purpose of the run was partly to alleviate the growing stress I felt about not exercising. I don’t know whether that is normal or not, but I always find that after a few days away from the gym I begin to get twitchy. This would take care of the twitch, but it also gave me time to think. There were few distractions when I went running, habitually I used the time to organise my thoughts regarding whatever was bothering me.
What was bothering me today was the Ukrainians. What were they capable of? I had accepted that I had met with organised crime. I had suspected it from the start, right back when it became apparent there was a strong Ukrainian flavour, but the death of Julia Jones nailed the thought home. So far though, all I had seen them do was guard the Dockyard and keep it clean. It had to be a front to the real operation. Whatever that was had to be criminal. It would have helped if Quinn had talked to me. Maybe I had been too hasty in leaving the police station yesterday. He had finally found his way onto my hook once I said I had evidence, by then though his aggravating nature had done a trick on me and I no longer cared for his company.
I had left the village through the vineyards. In the pre-dawn darkness there was no sound from critters running back into their holes in the ground and no traffic noises penetrated this far away from the roads. It was quiet, the only noise my laboured breathing as I slogged up the hill that would eventually cross the main artery into Maidstone known as Bluebell Hill. Before I reached it, I turned left at the edge of a field and began the route home, pushing myself despite the slippery grass under my feet. The frost coated everything, but the soil was not frozen. There were puddles I could see and navigate around and soggy patches of mud I could not.
Back at the house, I had to strip off my socks and shoes outside and carry them in. They went in the sink for me to remove mud from later. At the top of the stairs, having heard me come home, were Bull and Dozer, wagging their tails and waiting for me to fetch them.
Despite any misgivings about the case and the danger I might face, the dogs always made me smile.
Thirty minutes later, I was placing a freshly dog-licked plate into the dishwasher. The plate had once held bacon, eggs, spinach and courgette, a healthy breakfast that had met my needs if not exciting my taste buds.
My watch said the time was 0841hrs. It was time to go to the office.
Round Two with the Chief Inspector. Wednesday, November 23rd 0900hrs
The second I opened my car door to get out, the dogs bounced over my lap to plop on the tarmac and scurry to the office back door. Quite what they found so exciting about getting into work would forever be a mystery. They stood at the door, impatiently waiting for the slow-moving human to open it, looking at me, looking at the door and repeating the action until I locked my car and produced a key to open the office.
Having raced inside, their little paws skidding on the plastic tile from their furious effort, they were once again defeated by the inner door that led from the storage, toilet and admin area through to the office proper.
Had they been teenagers they probably would have sighed and tutted. Dachshunds though seem perpetually in an optimistic mood, so they did not complain, they just barrelled through the gap as I pushed the door open, Bull riding briefly on Dozer’s back as they both fought to occupy the same space.
Jane was making coffee. ‘I thought you would be along any moment.’ She said as she held a small white cup to collect the brew being
dispensed. ‘Amanda has been and gone already.’ Jane was dressed today in a pair of fake, black, leather, wet-look leggings. A vague memory was telling me the correct name for them was jeggings. Whatever they were called, they were skin tight on her slender legs which, to my mind was not a good look as the legs were not shapely like a woman’s. Rather, they were skinny, like a skinny man’s. Involuntarily, I noticed that where I would expect to see a bulge in the front of her groin area, the fake leather (is it pleather?) was completely smooth as if Jane were in fact post-op.
I opened my mouth to ask how the effect was achieved but closed it again quickly before the words made it through my teeth. I didn’t want to know the answer. Jane’s top half was covered by a loose-fitting jumper that hung off one shoulder to reveal the strap of her bra. Jane didn’t have any boobs to fill a bra but whatever was going on inside her jumper would remain a mystery as it was another question I was unwilling to ask.
The dogs had scurried across the carpet to search for biscuit crumbs, their busy noses leading them in an ever-hopeful search for food. By the time I arrived at the coffee machine, they had either found and eaten all there was to eat or had accepted defeat and stopped searching. Bull hopped onto one of the chairs set out for clients to wait on, turned around twice and settled down to sleep.
‘Thank you, Jane.’ I said as I accepted the offered cup. ‘Not having one yourself?’ I asked as she returned to her desk.
She shook her head. ‘It’s strong stuff. I have had one already and find that more than one in an hour makes my pulse begin to jitter.’
I knew what she meant. But, oh, it was good.
As Jane sat back in her chair she said, ‘I got a hit on the paper you found.’
It was to be the first thing I was going to ask her. Now I didn’t need to. I joined her behind her desk to see what she had.
‘The writing is Ukrainian. That’s what you expected isn’t it?’ I nodded. ‘The maker’s mark on it is for a firm that makes all kinds of different paper-based products from tissues to writing paper. I had a good look at them, but they appear to just be a firm that makes paper.’ She sounded disappointed because she knew I was hoping this might be a lead or a clue of some kind.
‘What is this particular paper used for?’
‘Oh, ah.’ She clicked the mouse to check her information. ‘The manufacture of cigarettes. Specifically, this is the paper that goes around the outside of the tobacco.’
As I thought about that the front door opened. I glanced up, unsure who it might be coming in, but very much expecting a customer. To my great surprise, the lean form of Chief Inspector Quinn let himself into my premises. He was accompanied by a younger man in a business suit. I took the younger man to be a plain-clothes police officer, but where most plain-clothes guys wear crappy, cheap, ill-fitting suits, this chap’s suit looked hand-cut and of fine material.
CI Quinn’s eyes met mine. His lips were pursed tight and I could instantly tell that he was here to admit that I was right about the Dockyard. His pride was stopping him from doing what he should and leading with an apology. I really wanted to make him squirm and mess him around, but I took the mature approach instead.
‘Chief Inspector, so good to see you.’ I crossed the room and shook his hand vigorously. ‘Might I interest you in a coffee? It’s the good stuff from Columbia.’
His face was fighting with competing emotions. He didn’t like me, and we were always adversarial, but here I was greeting him like an old friend and offering him the best of the house. Finally, the attraction of my coffee, no doubt aided by the wonderful aroma already in the room, forced him to speak. ‘Thank you, Mr Michaels. That would be acceptable.’
Acceptable. Quite the concession.
‘I’ll get them.’ Jane said, sidestepping us to get to the machine.
I turned my attention to the chap in the good suit. ‘Tempest Michaels.’ I introduced myself as I offered him my hand. He seemed quite caught off guard. CI Quinn had no doubt been warning him that I would be problematic or aggressive.
‘Joseph Kushnir.’ He replied automatically. The name sounded distinctly European but was delivered in a local accent.
‘Detective Sergeant Joseph Kushnir.’ CI Quinn reminded him before turning his eyes to me. He opened his mouth to speak but I got in first, guessing what it was he wanted to see me about.
‘Counterfeit and smuggling.’
‘I’m sorry?’ He replied.
‘That’s what the Ukrainians are up to at the Dockyard. They are using the Dockyard to smuggle in goods from outside the UK and are manufacturing counterfeit goods like cigarettes. No doubt there are other criminal activities such as prostitution going on elsewhere.’
‘Once again, I find you surprisingly well informed, Mr Michaels.’
‘Like I said yesterday, I found evidence.’ It was time to see how much the Chief Inspector knew. ‘Are you aware there are tunnels that lead to chambers beneath the Dockyard? They can be entered from the river unseen by people on land.’
His eyes betrayed that he did not. His younger colleague looked startled at the revelation. CI Quinn didn’t answer my question though. Instead he posed one of his own. ‘What is your relationship with Julia Jones?’
A brief flutter of worry zipped across my gut. Was the idiot here to see if I was involved in her death? ‘I don’t know her at all. We spoke on the phone once.’
‘And yet she employed you at the Dockyard, did she not?’
‘You know that she did.’ I snapped back with a touch of impatience. I hated being asked leading questions when everyone already knew the answer. ‘The Ukrainians murdered her. For what, I cannot tell so you can forget any daft ideas that I might be involved in her death.’
He nodded. ‘Shall we sit?’ He asked. The question was a change of tack and caught me by surprise. I was still standing when both he and his detective sergeant took their seats. Jane was just serving the coffee. ‘Please, Tempest.’ He added.
It was the first time he had addressed me by my first name.
I asked, ‘What are you up to, Ian?’ As I reversed into the seat opposite him.
CI Quinn looked up as Jane handed him a cup, thanked her and only paused for a half a second when the petite blonde said “You’re welcome” in a deep manly voice. I think he wanted to make a comment on the subject but to his credit he refrained, choosing to get on with what he had to say finally. ‘For eighteen months I have been spearheading a taskforce to tackle a growing organised crime problem. The Ukrainians are gaining ground and have been impossible to catch in the act as they flood the market with counterfeit tobacco products. There are alcohol and narcotics as well, and prostitution but on a lesser scale. The goods just appear on the streets. All our attempts to determine where they are coming into the country have resulted in wasted effort.’
I watched the dynamic opposite me. Quinn was relaxed in his chair, his back resting against the material behind him. He was doing all the talking. His colleague in contrast, was poised on the very front edge of his chair, almost twitching with nervous energy. He remained silent but hung on every word that came from his superior’s lips. The younger man looked a bit like the Chief Inspector, but not so alike that I thought they could be related. His brown hair was buzz cut to a length of perhaps a half inch on top and almost nothing on the sides. It was a very military cut and I observed that he was muscular beneath the suit, not hugely bulging like Big Ben, but athletic and toned like me.
I pushed my way into the conversation. I wanted to move it along. ‘You came here with a plan. What is it?’
‘My detective sergeant will be joining you on the cleaning crew.’
His statement caused my eyebrows to rise. ‘Just like that? How do you propose to get him a job on the cleaning crew?’
‘His parents are both Ukrainian. Aren’t they Joseph? His grandparents came to England after the second world war. Joseph speaks enough Ukrainian to make a phone call and secure a job. He did that yesterday afternoon.�
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About eight seconds after I told you about the Dockyard, no doubt.
‘That’s right, sir.’ He confirmed like a dutiful puppy.
I thought about it and shook my head. ‘I have no need of a companion on this venture.’ I held my hand up to silence Quinn before he could speak. ‘I recognise though that I have no sway over his presence at the Dockyard. Rather than conduct two separate investigations, I will work with you. What is that you need before you can raid the place?’
‘To prove its existence would be a good starting point. So far, I have no evidence that anything criminal is happening there at all. Can you prove the existence of this underground system?’
I considered what I genuinely knew. ‘Not yet.’ I had to conclude. I had some old maps, but they could be forged from imagination and I had noises coming through pipes in the rigging room that appeared to run into the ground. I still had no way into whatever was down there though and that was a key fact. Even if we knew for certain they were down there committing crimes, we couldn’t raid the place if we didn’t know how to get in. It was quite clever on their part.
I took the time to explain what I had been able to glean so far and what my next move was. Having CI Quinn on side for once was both refreshing and unsettling. I wasn’t sure I could trust him. I was certain that if I solved the case, revealed the ghosts, which were fast becoming nothing more than an aside, and presented the criminals to be arrested, Quinn would claim the victory for himself and his taskforce, reducing my involvement to a by-line somewhere.
By 1000hrs, Quinn was ready to leave. ‘I am leaving Detective Sergeant Kushnir with you, Mr Michaels. He will report back to me, so that you do not have to.’
It spoke volumes about CI Quinn that he had automatically assumed he was now in control of my investigation and was acting as if he was letting me off the hook of having to report to him. I managed to avoid reacting, although I made sure I did my best to crush his hand when I shook it goodbye.
‘There is a key point that neither of you know yet.’ I had their attention. ‘I am not going to the Dockyard tonight. I have a prior engagement.’ I didn’t elaborate. It was none of Quinn’s business.
