The sandman was good at ropes and knots. Was that a clue?
Accepting that getting my hands free was going to be the toughest challenge, I had another look at my feet.
Tempest. The Blue Moon Office. Friday, December 23rd 1607hrs
By the time Amanda parked the car it was fully dark outside, indiscernible from night-time even though people keeping office hours were still at work. Light from Rochester High Street illuminated the buildings, giving them a soft glow that balanced the deliberate lighting thrown upward to highlight the ancient cathedral. Just around the corner, hidden from view was an even older castle. That I had done battle there more than once and emerged victorious each time made it a special place for me.
There were no lights on in our office and no cars parked behind it save for the Lotus now. Amanda killed the ignition, plunging us back into semi-darkness as the car’s lights went out.
Getting out of a Lotus Esprit is not for the infirm or frail. Even lower than my Porsche Boxster, the people inside are almost on the ground so getting out with dignity is a skill. I can only imagine how complex it must be in a skirt.
Nevertheless, exhilarated from the ride, we clambered out and went into our building.
The lights of the office were still blinking on when Big Ben arrived. He was not alone.
‘I stopped off in Finchampstead to collect Basic and Hilary,’ he explained as the two men filed into the main office space behind him.
I gave them both a wave of greeting accompanied by a suitably grim smile. ‘Thanks for coming, guys. I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything.’
Amanda was flicking on the various computers around the office. There were tower PCs in my office and hers plus another on the front desk where Jane still worked most of the time. Originally hired as my assistant, she soon proved to be far more capable. We needed to hire a new receptionist person to perform some of the administrative tasks, but that was a long way from the top of the list on a good day – which this wasn’t.
The three of us carried laptops most places because our work went home with us – it was just that kind of job, but neither Amanda nor I had ours with us now and Jane’s was probably wherever she was.
I walked over to the coffee machine, crab-walking sideways so I could listen to Hilary.
‘Basic and I were working on his latest product. It’s already proving to be a cash cow.’
Big Ben asked the question first. ‘Oh, yeah? What is it?’
Hilary nudged Basic with an elbow. ‘Show ‘em, genius.’
Here’s the thing about James Burham. We call him Basic because he came loaded with only the most basic programming. He can dress himself and feed himself and he held a job for many years parking trolleys at a local supermarket. Beyond that, most concepts escape his ability to grasp, but if you think I am making this sound like an affliction or a disability, you could not be more wrong.
It is a gift.
To start with, the man is perpetually happy. Nothing comes along to ruin his mood and he is entertained by the simplest things. Second, his lack of intelligence gave rise to marketing ideas no one else in the world could ever dream up.
Recently, he quit his job at the supermarket to pursue a career as an internet entrepreneur. He started by selling air guitars. Yes, that’s right, people were paying him for fresh air. They could even pay extra for a signed limited edition. Not long after this took off, he diversified into selling wicked air and radical skids which he performed on his old BMX. His only overhead was the tyres he kept destroying.
I stopped what I was doing to hear what his latest idea might be.
From inside his winter coat, Basic produced a coat hanger. It was a blue plastic one. He held it in the air, looped over the index finger of his right hand. He had a broad, dopey grin on his face.
‘It’s a coat hanger,’ Amanda pointed out.
‘S’not,’ argued Basic, his grin widening just a little further.
Big Ben bit. ‘Okay, what is it then?’
Hilary was struggling to keep his mirth inside.
Basic waved his left hand through the air as if drawing the attention of a crowd to what he held in front of his body.
‘It’s a camouflage jacket,’ he announced.
I blinked.
Amanda turned her head my way, an uncertain expression on her face.
I was trying to fight the laughter, but it forced its way out. Big Ben started howling and soon the five of us were all falling about.
When I could form a sentence, I asked, ‘How many have you sold?’
Hilary, Basic’s business partner and the one converting the insane ideas into real money, wiped his eyes. ‘Twenty-five thousand.’ My jaw dropped open. ‘In a week,’ he added.
It was enough to silence the room. I really wanted to ask how much they were selling them for, but that would be vulgar, so I let it go and got on with making coffee.
Sensing the shift from humour to the deadly business for which we were assembling, Big Ben asked, ‘What do you need us to do?’
From her office, Amanda wheeled a large whiteboard on an easel. The pair of us found it easier to visualise the clues in our cases sometimes. Names and places could be quickly jotted with lines connecting them.
As she approached, I started talking.
‘At this point, all we know is that a person we suspect to be guilty of killing several women
