Rhys-Morgan put the phone down, poured himself another cup of coffee and took a big swig. His face contorted. It was not a pretty sight, and not only because of the day’s stubble on his chin, the coffee-stained teeth and the big bags under his eyes.
The expression he wore was one of gross disapproval. This was partly because his coffee tasted like mud – mud that had been stewed in a wrestler’s jock strap for a week or two. But the coffee was not the main reason for his displeasure – Rhys-Morgan’s coffee was not so much a hot beverage as it was a caffeine-delivery system, and he had long become accustomed to its dreadful flavour.
Although not entirely unexpected, it was the identification of the two victims that had just been phoned through to him that had annoyed him so much. If there was one thing that got on Rhys-Morgan’s nerves, it was mime artists. And small yappy dogs wearing little coats. And Westlife. But more than all these things, it was loose ends. And rather than tying things up, the scribbled notes on the jotter next to his phone might open the door to a veritable jamboree of loose ends, frayed knots and general poor quality rope-work all round.
This may not be suicide after all. It was going to be a long night.
Showing posts with label #chapter9. Show all posts
Showing posts with label #chapter9. Show all posts
Monday, 3 September 2012
Sunday, 2 September 2012
Chapter 9.5
William shifted uncomfortably from leg to leg. “Can I whisper it in your ear?”
Mystic Mog threw a look at Cyril who deflected it to Billy with a deft shrug of his shoulders. Billy caught it square on the chin and was not happy.
“Don’t look at me,” he grumbled. “I was asleep at the time, remember?”
Mog grunted. She was still not sleeping well and this pair of petulant animals was getting more than a little tiresome.
“No,” she said firmly in answer to the first question.
William gave her a pleading look.
“No!” she repeated, the last remnant of kindness having ebbed from her voice along with her patience. “Just tell us where he went.”
William looked down at his hooves.
“I don’t think he went down there,” Mog chided. “Now, tell us!”
“I don’t know where he went,” he mumbled.
“What?” said Cyril. “I didn’t hear you?”
“That was the point.” William muttered. He sidled away from Billy slightly and spoke up. “I said I don’t know! I… I lost him.”
“You lost me?!” cried Billy. “Why you…”
Cyril was quick to intervene, and sprung across Mog’s clearing to put himself between the two goats.
“Eh! Calm down, calm down!”
William’s bottom lip had started to quiver. “I’m sorry. I did follow you. But it was very foggy. And you lost your bell.”
“I never…” Billy tailed off as he thought back. With reflection, he had woken up without the bell around his neck. He snorted and sat down sullenly.
Cyril could see the situation getting out of hand and was quick to try and restore some harmony.
“Eh, now, c’mon,” he told them. “Everyone just calm down and let’s see what William does know. Everyone calm down.”
Mog stepped back – without realising it, she had arched her back, puffed up her tail and was standing over the cowering young goat, claws out and ready for action. With a great deal of effort, she calmed her voice. “OK, William. Describe what happened up to the point that you lost Billy.”
William took a deep breath and told them how he had followed Billy as best he could through the fog down the farm track on to the road and then down the hill, towards Swansea.
“I lost him for a while then, by the turn-off to Farmer Jones’s place.”
Cyril gulped nervously. “You didn’t run into him or his tabby did you?”
“No,” William replied. “Thankfully, he didn’t go that way – he continued down to the main road. I did run into a strange character, though.”
The others listened with interest as William described his bizarre encounter with the small brown bird.
“I think he was trying to help but I really could not understand anything he was saying. I mean, it was English and the words themselves were OK, it was just the sentences. Which bough is about to break? And what fruit is ripe for the picking?”
“Sounds like the Zen Wren,” Mog told him. “Irritating little bastard. His wisdom is what you make of it. Personally, I’d ignore all that crap.”
“What?!” she asked as three faces gawked at her in disbelief. “I may be a psychic but it doesn’t mean that I believe in any old crap!”
“What happened when you reached the main road?” she asked, changing the subject.
“That’s where I lost him. I reckon he was heading for Swansea, though.”
“There’s not a lot in the other direction,” agreed Cyril.
“Well,” said Mog. “Doesn’t really help us either way. Towards Swansea and we have too many possible destinations to make a prediction. Away from Swansea and we don’t have enough.” Billy again looked like he was going to cry. He legs really ached from last night and there was no way he wanted that to be for nothing.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” he asked, exasperated.
Mog closed her eyes and felt the quiet pressure of fatigue push at her eyeballs. There was one thing left to try but she did not want to try it. When she opened her eyes, however, three expectant faces were looking right at her.
“There is something we can try,” she conceded. “But I don’t hold out much hope.”
“What is it?” asked William, eager that some miracle cure might yet get him off the hook. Even Billy perked up for a moment.
“Well, you’re brothers,” Mog explained. “And, as such, will have a weak, latent psychic link. Although I cannot get a reading direct from young Billy as to where he went – he was asleep at the time, after all – I may be able to read from William. It will be tough, though. I will have to try and pick up faint psychic memories – so faint that William himself was not even aware of them at the time. I don’t rate our chances.”
William stepped forward and then hesitated. “Is it dangerous?”
“Well, dangerous is such a subjective word.” Mog answered evasively. “I mean, there is a small chance of your brain being turned into something the consistency of porridge but, hey, it’s more likely to happen to me. Or Billy.”
“What?!” said Billy.
“What?” asked Mog, full of innocence. “I’m joking!”
“Mostly,” she coughed under her breath.
William took another step forward, rallying as much of his courage as he could. “I am prepared to have a go if you are.”
Billy opened his mouth to argue and then thought better of it as Mog watched his brother trot up to the picnic table and place his front paws in front of him in readiness.
“OK,” she agreed. “Let’s do it!”
Mog felt William tense slightly as she grabbed his paws in hers.
“Now, close your eyes,” she commanded. “And try to relax!”
Cyril stared across at Mog expectantly. He knew she was tired but she had always pulled through when it really mattered in the past. Her face was a portrait of total concentration.
For twenty long seconds, nothing happened. Then the wailing started. It began quietly in the back of Mog’s throat and slowly increased in volume. As it reached an uncomfortable level, slight tremors began in Mog’s body, running from her shoulders down to the table. Cyril watched in concern. She did not normally wail during a serious reading – that stuff was just for paying customers. Something must be wrong.
When the first spasm wracked Mog’s body, Cyril was already leaping through the air. The wailing was now at the kind of volume and pitch that could smash glassware from across the room. He arrived as the Mog was having her second spasm.
Although small, Cyril’s speed gave him enough momentum to break the two animals apart. The wailing ceased immediately and William staggered backwards before falling over. Mystic Mog sat still for a moment, wavering slightly. Then she was violently sick.
Mystic Mog threw a look at Cyril who deflected it to Billy with a deft shrug of his shoulders. Billy caught it square on the chin and was not happy.
“Don’t look at me,” he grumbled. “I was asleep at the time, remember?”
Mog grunted. She was still not sleeping well and this pair of petulant animals was getting more than a little tiresome.
“No,” she said firmly in answer to the first question.
William gave her a pleading look.
“No!” she repeated, the last remnant of kindness having ebbed from her voice along with her patience. “Just tell us where he went.”
William looked down at his hooves.
“I don’t think he went down there,” Mog chided. “Now, tell us!”
“I don’t know where he went,” he mumbled.
“What?” said Cyril. “I didn’t hear you?”
“That was the point.” William muttered. He sidled away from Billy slightly and spoke up. “I said I don’t know! I… I lost him.”
“You lost me?!” cried Billy. “Why you…”
Cyril was quick to intervene, and sprung across Mog’s clearing to put himself between the two goats.
“Eh! Calm down, calm down!”
William’s bottom lip had started to quiver. “I’m sorry. I did follow you. But it was very foggy. And you lost your bell.”
“I never…” Billy tailed off as he thought back. With reflection, he had woken up without the bell around his neck. He snorted and sat down sullenly.
Cyril could see the situation getting out of hand and was quick to try and restore some harmony.
“Eh, now, c’mon,” he told them. “Everyone just calm down and let’s see what William does know. Everyone calm down.”
Mog stepped back – without realising it, she had arched her back, puffed up her tail and was standing over the cowering young goat, claws out and ready for action. With a great deal of effort, she calmed her voice. “OK, William. Describe what happened up to the point that you lost Billy.”
William took a deep breath and told them how he had followed Billy as best he could through the fog down the farm track on to the road and then down the hill, towards Swansea.
“I lost him for a while then, by the turn-off to Farmer Jones’s place.”
Cyril gulped nervously. “You didn’t run into him or his tabby did you?”
“No,” William replied. “Thankfully, he didn’t go that way – he continued down to the main road. I did run into a strange character, though.”
The others listened with interest as William described his bizarre encounter with the small brown bird.
“I think he was trying to help but I really could not understand anything he was saying. I mean, it was English and the words themselves were OK, it was just the sentences. Which bough is about to break? And what fruit is ripe for the picking?”
“Sounds like the Zen Wren,” Mog told him. “Irritating little bastard. His wisdom is what you make of it. Personally, I’d ignore all that crap.”
“What?!” she asked as three faces gawked at her in disbelief. “I may be a psychic but it doesn’t mean that I believe in any old crap!”
“What happened when you reached the main road?” she asked, changing the subject.
“That’s where I lost him. I reckon he was heading for Swansea, though.”
“There’s not a lot in the other direction,” agreed Cyril.
“Well,” said Mog. “Doesn’t really help us either way. Towards Swansea and we have too many possible destinations to make a prediction. Away from Swansea and we don’t have enough.” Billy again looked like he was going to cry. He legs really ached from last night and there was no way he wanted that to be for nothing.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” he asked, exasperated.
Mog closed her eyes and felt the quiet pressure of fatigue push at her eyeballs. There was one thing left to try but she did not want to try it. When she opened her eyes, however, three expectant faces were looking right at her.
“There is something we can try,” she conceded. “But I don’t hold out much hope.”
“What is it?” asked William, eager that some miracle cure might yet get him off the hook. Even Billy perked up for a moment.
“Well, you’re brothers,” Mog explained. “And, as such, will have a weak, latent psychic link. Although I cannot get a reading direct from young Billy as to where he went – he was asleep at the time, after all – I may be able to read from William. It will be tough, though. I will have to try and pick up faint psychic memories – so faint that William himself was not even aware of them at the time. I don’t rate our chances.”
William stepped forward and then hesitated. “Is it dangerous?”
“Well, dangerous is such a subjective word.” Mog answered evasively. “I mean, there is a small chance of your brain being turned into something the consistency of porridge but, hey, it’s more likely to happen to me. Or Billy.”
“What?!” said Billy.
“What?” asked Mog, full of innocence. “I’m joking!”
“Mostly,” she coughed under her breath.
William took another step forward, rallying as much of his courage as he could. “I am prepared to have a go if you are.”
Billy opened his mouth to argue and then thought better of it as Mog watched his brother trot up to the picnic table and place his front paws in front of him in readiness.
“OK,” she agreed. “Let’s do it!”
Mog felt William tense slightly as she grabbed his paws in hers.
“Now, close your eyes,” she commanded. “And try to relax!”
Cyril stared across at Mog expectantly. He knew she was tired but she had always pulled through when it really mattered in the past. Her face was a portrait of total concentration.
For twenty long seconds, nothing happened. Then the wailing started. It began quietly in the back of Mog’s throat and slowly increased in volume. As it reached an uncomfortable level, slight tremors began in Mog’s body, running from her shoulders down to the table. Cyril watched in concern. She did not normally wail during a serious reading – that stuff was just for paying customers. Something must be wrong.
When the first spasm wracked Mog’s body, Cyril was already leaping through the air. The wailing was now at the kind of volume and pitch that could smash glassware from across the room. He arrived as the Mog was having her second spasm.
Although small, Cyril’s speed gave him enough momentum to break the two animals apart. The wailing ceased immediately and William staggered backwards before falling over. Mystic Mog sat still for a moment, wavering slightly. Then she was violently sick.
Saturday, 1 September 2012
Chapter 9.4
Rhys-Morgan liked his coffee like he did not like his women – strong and bitter. Hot and wet was okay but they should not come in a mug. (Rhys-Morgan had visited that particular club in Amsterdam and had not been impressed.) Coffee may stain your teeth but it would never run off with the men’s room attendant from your golf club.
He leant back in his chair and rubbed his eyes wearily. The visit to Smeg & Butterworth had stirred up dregs of bad memories from a past that Ifan wanted to remain buried. The only thing he could do in response was to bury himself in his work.
A quick gulp of his coffee snapped him out of his contemplation and he picked up the first sheet of paper from his in-tray. It was a copy of Sarah Jackson’s medical records. He knew what was coming next but was still hesitant as he turned the leaf and read the page stapled to it. It was a forensic report. Sarah’s profile was an exact match for one of the victims.
With an involuntarily curl of his top lip he cast the papers back on his desk. It was bad enough when a couple of scumbags had a lethal falling out (often the lethality was due to one of them falling out a tenth story window, or a moving car) but he really hated the part of his job that dealt with the death of innocents.
There was a soft knock at the door. Rhys-Morgan could see the familiar silhouette of Tommie through the frosted glass.
“Come in, Tommie.”
Tommie opened the door and lent around it. He gaze quickly flicked between the report on Rhys-Morgan’s desk and the expression on his face.
“You’ve seen my report, then.”
It was not a question but Rhys-Morgan felt it deserved a response. “Yes, Tommie.” He did not really know what else to say.
Tommie’s body followed his head into the office and he placed a Krispy Kreme donut box on the Inspector’s desk in which the sole survivor of an original glazed dozen sat. There was a brief pause as a Tommie tried to discern the mood of his boss. “Bobby and Tommo are back. Shall I send them in?”
Rhys-Morgan nodded with a resigned shrug. “Please. And I phoned in a request earlier for information on an Anthony Smeg and a Wendy Lloyd. I think Rog was doing the digging.” Tommie nodded, pleased to have an excuse to leave again. “I’ll get on it.”
Thirty seconds or so after Tommie closed the door there was another knock. This time it sounded like someone trying to be gentle but, having giant hams for fists, failing miserably.
Ifan did not even look up. “Come in Tommo.”
The door opened and the shut heavily. A shadow slowly loomed over Rhys-Morgan and produced a sheet of paper.
“Here’s the DVLA’s summary, Guv. Bobby’s finishing off the full report for you now.”
“Thanks Tommo,” Rhys-Morgan answered, taking the proffered paper. “What have we got?”
“The owners of the vehicles, Guv.”
“Yes, Tommo,” sighed Rhys-Morgan. “I realise that. But what does it say?”
“Well, Guv, Bobby was right. That Landrover did belong to the Jacksons.”
Rhys-Morgan scanned the report. “Let’s see. ’82 Suzuki moped. Red.”
“Belongs to a young girl, Emma Fredricks. We haven’t managed to track her down, yet. Forensics are double-checking but it looks like one of the victims may be a match.” Rhys-Morgan drained the rest of his mug. “And what about the owner of the Volvo?” He checked the page. “Duncan Bridges.”
“Yeah. Twenty-three.” Tommo smirked. “Lives with his mum.”
“Found him?”
“Not yet. She didn’t know where he was. Went out very early yesterday morning. Hasn’t been since. Again, there’s a likely match with one of the bomb blast casualties. We should know for sure later.”
“Good. The sooner we get these I.D.s, the better.” He turned the page and frowned. “What’s this blue Fiesta? That wasn’t in the original list.”
“It got towed from a different lay-by to the other three,” Tommo explained. “Somehow got overlooked. Just as well, really - it didn’t belong to one of the victims.”
Rhys-Morgan read on. “Ah, yes. A Stephen Bailey reported it missing just before lunch.” He raised his eyebrows. “My, that is some colourful language. Send a car to his house and get a statement. He might have seen or heard something. Failing that, it might stop him lodging an official complaint; that’s one hassle, I could really do without.”
“Yes, Guv.”
Rhys-Morgan dropped Tommo’s report on top of the medical reports from Tommie. It was not much but it was a step on the right direction, at least.
“Right. Thanks, Tommo. Let me know when we have something more.”
“Sure thing, Guv.”
The shadow retreated, closing the door heavily behind it. Rhys-Morgan reached for the coffee pot. If forensics did get a positive match with Emma and Duncan then that would bring the identified victims to five. But who were the rest? And what was the link? And why could he not shake the feeling that he was not going to like the answers?
He leant back in his chair and rubbed his eyes wearily. The visit to Smeg & Butterworth had stirred up dregs of bad memories from a past that Ifan wanted to remain buried. The only thing he could do in response was to bury himself in his work.
A quick gulp of his coffee snapped him out of his contemplation and he picked up the first sheet of paper from his in-tray. It was a copy of Sarah Jackson’s medical records. He knew what was coming next but was still hesitant as he turned the leaf and read the page stapled to it. It was a forensic report. Sarah’s profile was an exact match for one of the victims.
With an involuntarily curl of his top lip he cast the papers back on his desk. It was bad enough when a couple of scumbags had a lethal falling out (often the lethality was due to one of them falling out a tenth story window, or a moving car) but he really hated the part of his job that dealt with the death of innocents.
There was a soft knock at the door. Rhys-Morgan could see the familiar silhouette of Tommie through the frosted glass.
“Come in, Tommie.”
Tommie opened the door and lent around it. He gaze quickly flicked between the report on Rhys-Morgan’s desk and the expression on his face.
“You’ve seen my report, then.”
It was not a question but Rhys-Morgan felt it deserved a response. “Yes, Tommie.” He did not really know what else to say.
Tommie’s body followed his head into the office and he placed a Krispy Kreme donut box on the Inspector’s desk in which the sole survivor of an original glazed dozen sat. There was a brief pause as a Tommie tried to discern the mood of his boss. “Bobby and Tommo are back. Shall I send them in?”
Rhys-Morgan nodded with a resigned shrug. “Please. And I phoned in a request earlier for information on an Anthony Smeg and a Wendy Lloyd. I think Rog was doing the digging.” Tommie nodded, pleased to have an excuse to leave again. “I’ll get on it.”
Thirty seconds or so after Tommie closed the door there was another knock. This time it sounded like someone trying to be gentle but, having giant hams for fists, failing miserably.
Ifan did not even look up. “Come in Tommo.”
The door opened and the shut heavily. A shadow slowly loomed over Rhys-Morgan and produced a sheet of paper.
“Here’s the DVLA’s summary, Guv. Bobby’s finishing off the full report for you now.”
“Thanks Tommo,” Rhys-Morgan answered, taking the proffered paper. “What have we got?”
“The owners of the vehicles, Guv.”
“Yes, Tommo,” sighed Rhys-Morgan. “I realise that. But what does it say?”
“Well, Guv, Bobby was right. That Landrover did belong to the Jacksons.”
Rhys-Morgan scanned the report. “Let’s see. ’82 Suzuki moped. Red.”
“Belongs to a young girl, Emma Fredricks. We haven’t managed to track her down, yet. Forensics are double-checking but it looks like one of the victims may be a match.” Rhys-Morgan drained the rest of his mug. “And what about the owner of the Volvo?” He checked the page. “Duncan Bridges.”
“Yeah. Twenty-three.” Tommo smirked. “Lives with his mum.”
“Found him?”
“Not yet. She didn’t know where he was. Went out very early yesterday morning. Hasn’t been since. Again, there’s a likely match with one of the bomb blast casualties. We should know for sure later.”
“Good. The sooner we get these I.D.s, the better.” He turned the page and frowned. “What’s this blue Fiesta? That wasn’t in the original list.”
“It got towed from a different lay-by to the other three,” Tommo explained. “Somehow got overlooked. Just as well, really - it didn’t belong to one of the victims.”
Rhys-Morgan read on. “Ah, yes. A Stephen Bailey reported it missing just before lunch.” He raised his eyebrows. “My, that is some colourful language. Send a car to his house and get a statement. He might have seen or heard something. Failing that, it might stop him lodging an official complaint; that’s one hassle, I could really do without.”
“Yes, Guv.”
Rhys-Morgan dropped Tommo’s report on top of the medical reports from Tommie. It was not much but it was a step on the right direction, at least.
“Right. Thanks, Tommo. Let me know when we have something more.”
“Sure thing, Guv.”
The shadow retreated, closing the door heavily behind it. Rhys-Morgan reached for the coffee pot. If forensics did get a positive match with Emma and Duncan then that would bring the identified victims to five. But who were the rest? And what was the link? And why could he not shake the feeling that he was not going to like the answers?
Friday, 31 August 2012
Chapter 9.3
Sir Henry’s grey Bentley was joyless at the best of times but as Watson steered it on to the M4 it was definitely venturing close to negative joy and possibly pain. Something like yoghurt. Sir Henry did not approve of yoghurt.
Sir Henry himself was brooding in the back seat. He had spent a rather disappointing couple of hours, driving out to Professor Greenwood’s house and finding it empty but otherwise devoid of clues. He glanced over at the laptop on the seat next to him. Perhaps that would have some answers that the tech boys could extract. He sneered. Sir Henry did not trust computers.
Alec Watson, meanwhile, was quietly fuming in the front seat and trying not to convert his anger into miles per hour. Sir Henry did not approve of speeding. The fact that Alec Watson was probably capable of driving the Bentley back to London on two wheels was neither here nor there. He was tempted to try.
For Watson, the last couple of hours had been more than disappointing. They had been held up twice on the way to the Professor’s house: first by a drift of sheep being driven down the lane and then by a tractor that necessitated Watson reversing for quarter of a mile. Neither of these were particularly unexpected but Sir Henry seemed to hold him personally responsible.
When they had finally made it to the house, which was clearly deserted, Sir Henry had then refused to let Watson pick the lock. Instead, he made Watson call for a local locksmith, wasting another three quarters of an hour. As a final insult, he rejected Watson’s offer to hack into Greenwood’s laptop, in favour of shipping it back to Q division, who would no doubt find a way to make it explode or turn the CD drive into a Shiruken launcher before getting round to actually extracting any useful data - assuming there was even and useful data on there. As so often in Watson’s life of late, he could not help thinking that he would have achieved four times as much in half the time if Sir Henry would just sod off back to London.
To add injury to insult, they had missed lunch and now Watson’s stomach was rumbling. Sir Henry did not approve of motorway service stations, so there would be nothing for Watson until they got back to London. At least the partition was up so Sir Henry could not grumble about the rumbles.
Just as that last thought passed through his head, Watson heard the gentle whir of the partition sliding down. He gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter and let the accelerator pedal creep towards to the floor.
“I think I might have to get Wainbridge on this one, Smithers,” said Sir Henry. “There’s something funny going on here and I don’t like it.”
Watson nodded. Sir Henry did not approve of funny at the best of times, and this was not the best of times.
“I need you to call ahead and arrange a meeting with the M.O.D.” Sir Henry continued, oblivious to the bad vibes emanating from the front seat. “Unless Greywood turns up soon, I think we’ll have to close down BIRD-FLU until this all blows over. We would not want the locals to panic.”
“Yes, sir.” Watson answered, through gritted teeth.
“Either way, I want you to head back to Swansea first thing and do some more checking up on the rest of the staff. That American professor reeked of whisky and the caretaker clearly cannot be trusted. Never trust a man with a beard, Smithers: they have something to hide. Now, if you excuse me, I have some thinking to do."
As the partition slid back up, Watson’s left hand was already instinctively dialling the number for headquarters as he reflected what was just said. There was some good news, at least. Sir Henry said “you” not “we”. There was chance that he would be released from Sir Henry’s leash. He also found himself contemplating the idea of growing a beard.
Noting that Sir Henry had activated the darkened glass, Watson accelerated a little more and pulled the car out into the fast lane. Perhaps things were looking up.
With that, the heavens opened.
Sir Henry himself was brooding in the back seat. He had spent a rather disappointing couple of hours, driving out to Professor Greenwood’s house and finding it empty but otherwise devoid of clues. He glanced over at the laptop on the seat next to him. Perhaps that would have some answers that the tech boys could extract. He sneered. Sir Henry did not trust computers.
Alec Watson, meanwhile, was quietly fuming in the front seat and trying not to convert his anger into miles per hour. Sir Henry did not approve of speeding. The fact that Alec Watson was probably capable of driving the Bentley back to London on two wheels was neither here nor there. He was tempted to try.
For Watson, the last couple of hours had been more than disappointing. They had been held up twice on the way to the Professor’s house: first by a drift of sheep being driven down the lane and then by a tractor that necessitated Watson reversing for quarter of a mile. Neither of these were particularly unexpected but Sir Henry seemed to hold him personally responsible.
When they had finally made it to the house, which was clearly deserted, Sir Henry had then refused to let Watson pick the lock. Instead, he made Watson call for a local locksmith, wasting another three quarters of an hour. As a final insult, he rejected Watson’s offer to hack into Greenwood’s laptop, in favour of shipping it back to Q division, who would no doubt find a way to make it explode or turn the CD drive into a Shiruken launcher before getting round to actually extracting any useful data - assuming there was even and useful data on there. As so often in Watson’s life of late, he could not help thinking that he would have achieved four times as much in half the time if Sir Henry would just sod off back to London.
To add injury to insult, they had missed lunch and now Watson’s stomach was rumbling. Sir Henry did not approve of motorway service stations, so there would be nothing for Watson until they got back to London. At least the partition was up so Sir Henry could not grumble about the rumbles.
Just as that last thought passed through his head, Watson heard the gentle whir of the partition sliding down. He gripped the steering wheel a bit tighter and let the accelerator pedal creep towards to the floor.
“I think I might have to get Wainbridge on this one, Smithers,” said Sir Henry. “There’s something funny going on here and I don’t like it.”
Watson nodded. Sir Henry did not approve of funny at the best of times, and this was not the best of times.
“I need you to call ahead and arrange a meeting with the M.O.D.” Sir Henry continued, oblivious to the bad vibes emanating from the front seat. “Unless Greywood turns up soon, I think we’ll have to close down BIRD-FLU until this all blows over. We would not want the locals to panic.”
“Yes, sir.” Watson answered, through gritted teeth.
“Either way, I want you to head back to Swansea first thing and do some more checking up on the rest of the staff. That American professor reeked of whisky and the caretaker clearly cannot be trusted. Never trust a man with a beard, Smithers: they have something to hide. Now, if you excuse me, I have some thinking to do."
As the partition slid back up, Watson’s left hand was already instinctively dialling the number for headquarters as he reflected what was just said. There was some good news, at least. Sir Henry said “you” not “we”. There was chance that he would be released from Sir Henry’s leash. He also found himself contemplating the idea of growing a beard.
Noting that Sir Henry had activated the darkened glass, Watson accelerated a little more and pulled the car out into the fast lane. Perhaps things were looking up.
With that, the heavens opened.
Thursday, 30 August 2012
Chapter 9.2
The police van skipped easily down the windy back roads with WPC Evans at the wheel. Apart from setting the dogs on drunken troublemakers, this was the part of her job that Kippie normally enjoyed the most. Today, however, her heart was not really in it. Seeing her friend so shaken up had rattled her. She made a mental note to dig up the notes on the St Mildred’s robbery as soon as she got back to the station.
So deep in thought was she that she almost did not see Foxy Loxy and Weasel until she was upon them. Foxy was trotting along the verge but Weasel was ambling along in the road itself. He probably wanted to get run over.
If he did then she was not going to oblige him. Kippie applied the brakes firmly and, pulling up alongside them, wound down the window.
“You guys wanna ride?” she shouted over the Cheryl Crow blaring out of the stereo.
“I wouldn’t say no!” smiled Foxy.
“I would,” moaned Weasel. “We’ll probably end up having a horrible head on collision with a tractor or something.”
“Ignore him!” Foxy told her.
“I always do!” she smiled in return, clicking open the back of the van. “Come on. Jump in.”
Foxy nudged the back of the van open with his nose and jumped nimbly on board. He turned to Weasel. “Coming?”
“I suppose so. Probably just end up as road kill if I don’t.”
Foxy Loxy held out a paw for his cheerless chum. After Weasel was safely on board, Foxy pulled the door shut with a specially fitted strap, and turned to Kippie in the front.
“Tally ho!”
“Who are you calling a Ho?” Kippie smiled but needed no second bidding and with a brief wheel-spin the van sped off once more.
“It smells like dog in here,” muttered Weasel.
“So,” Kippie asked as she turned the stereo down, ignoring the moaning Mustelid. “Did you learn anything from O’Bee’s place?”
“Not really,” Foxy answered. “There were goat tracks near the bomb site but I’m not convinced they were from one of Toby’s goats. Even if they were, I am convinced that his goats were not involved in this ghastly business. Not directly, anyway. How about you? Get anything useful from the unlikely martyrs?”
“Not really,” Kippie told him, slightly distantly. “Didn’t get much on Patrick Edwards at all.”
“But…?”
Kippie turned in her seat. “But what?”
“Eyes on the road, m’dear. But… you seem a bit preoccupied by something.”
Kippie clicked the stereo off completely. “Yeah, it’s my friend Mary. Well, she used to be my friend – at school. She was involved in the robbery there a few days ago. Did you hear about that?”
Foxy looked at Weasel, who shook his head. “Nope. Can’t say that I did.”
“Well, it was an odd one all right. Someone tied up Mary. I mean, a nun. And a school teacher at that. What kind of person ties up a nun?” She paused. “The same kind of sicko that would steal some animals, I s’pose.”
At this Foxy perked up and even Weasel stopped pretending that he was not interested.
“They stole animals?” Foxy asked. “What kind of animals?”
“Newts…” began Kippie.
“Newts?!” cried Weasel with an air of disgust. In his book (the ladybird pop-up book of carnivorous monsters), anything with gills did not count as a proper animal.
“Not just newts! Newts, a gerbil and…” Kippie trailed off for a moment as an old thought resurfaced. It was only as they rolled to a stop at the next junction that she caught sight of the two expectant faces through the grill partition behind her.
“And?” prompted Foxy.
“Newts,” repeated Kippie, softly, “a gerbil and…”
This time the pause was dramatic.
“…and two tortoises. And there was a tortoise shell at the bomb site.”
“I know,” Foxy told her. “We found it!”
“Really?” Kippie raised one eyebrow and met Foxy’s gaze, then smiled. “I suspected as much. Cassidy obviously forgot to mention it.”
“What a surprise.” Weasel’s voice was so heavy with sarcasm that he had trouble lifting his head. “For your information, though, that shell was not exactly found at the bomb site.”
The eyebrow dropped. Now she was genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”
“He’s quite right, m’dear,” Foxy confirmed. “We found it in a nearby wood, don’t you know. Must have been blown for miles.”
“Tortoises don’t live in the woods on the whole, then?” Kippie asked him, who didn’t know. Foxy replied with a toothy grin. “Not in these parts, m’dear.”
“And this one wasn’t whole,” added Weasel. “And it certainly wasn’t living.”
“Plus,” added Foxy, “eyewitness accounts describe it falling from the sky.”
Evans released the handbrake and got the van moving once more. “Blimey. To get blown that far it must have been right in the centre of the blast.”
“Yes,” muttered Foxy. “The poor little bugger.”
So deep in thought was she that she almost did not see Foxy Loxy and Weasel until she was upon them. Foxy was trotting along the verge but Weasel was ambling along in the road itself. He probably wanted to get run over.
If he did then she was not going to oblige him. Kippie applied the brakes firmly and, pulling up alongside them, wound down the window.
“You guys wanna ride?” she shouted over the Cheryl Crow blaring out of the stereo.
“I wouldn’t say no!” smiled Foxy.
“I would,” moaned Weasel. “We’ll probably end up having a horrible head on collision with a tractor or something.”
“Ignore him!” Foxy told her.
“I always do!” she smiled in return, clicking open the back of the van. “Come on. Jump in.”
Foxy nudged the back of the van open with his nose and jumped nimbly on board. He turned to Weasel. “Coming?”
“I suppose so. Probably just end up as road kill if I don’t.”
Foxy Loxy held out a paw for his cheerless chum. After Weasel was safely on board, Foxy pulled the door shut with a specially fitted strap, and turned to Kippie in the front.
“Tally ho!”
“Who are you calling a Ho?” Kippie smiled but needed no second bidding and with a brief wheel-spin the van sped off once more.
“It smells like dog in here,” muttered Weasel.
“So,” Kippie asked as she turned the stereo down, ignoring the moaning Mustelid. “Did you learn anything from O’Bee’s place?”
“Not really,” Foxy answered. “There were goat tracks near the bomb site but I’m not convinced they were from one of Toby’s goats. Even if they were, I am convinced that his goats were not involved in this ghastly business. Not directly, anyway. How about you? Get anything useful from the unlikely martyrs?”
“Not really,” Kippie told him, slightly distantly. “Didn’t get much on Patrick Edwards at all.”
“But…?”
Kippie turned in her seat. “But what?”
“Eyes on the road, m’dear. But… you seem a bit preoccupied by something.”
Kippie clicked the stereo off completely. “Yeah, it’s my friend Mary. Well, she used to be my friend – at school. She was involved in the robbery there a few days ago. Did you hear about that?”
Foxy looked at Weasel, who shook his head. “Nope. Can’t say that I did.”
“Well, it was an odd one all right. Someone tied up Mary. I mean, a nun. And a school teacher at that. What kind of person ties up a nun?” She paused. “The same kind of sicko that would steal some animals, I s’pose.”
At this Foxy perked up and even Weasel stopped pretending that he was not interested.
“They stole animals?” Foxy asked. “What kind of animals?”
“Newts…” began Kippie.
“Newts?!” cried Weasel with an air of disgust. In his book (the ladybird pop-up book of carnivorous monsters), anything with gills did not count as a proper animal.
“Not just newts! Newts, a gerbil and…” Kippie trailed off for a moment as an old thought resurfaced. It was only as they rolled to a stop at the next junction that she caught sight of the two expectant faces through the grill partition behind her.
“And?” prompted Foxy.
“Newts,” repeated Kippie, softly, “a gerbil and…”
This time the pause was dramatic.
“…and two tortoises. And there was a tortoise shell at the bomb site.”
“I know,” Foxy told her. “We found it!”
“Really?” Kippie raised one eyebrow and met Foxy’s gaze, then smiled. “I suspected as much. Cassidy obviously forgot to mention it.”
“What a surprise.” Weasel’s voice was so heavy with sarcasm that he had trouble lifting his head. “For your information, though, that shell was not exactly found at the bomb site.”
The eyebrow dropped. Now she was genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”
“He’s quite right, m’dear,” Foxy confirmed. “We found it in a nearby wood, don’t you know. Must have been blown for miles.”
“Tortoises don’t live in the woods on the whole, then?” Kippie asked him, who didn’t know. Foxy replied with a toothy grin. “Not in these parts, m’dear.”
“And this one wasn’t whole,” added Weasel. “And it certainly wasn’t living.”
“Plus,” added Foxy, “eyewitness accounts describe it falling from the sky.”
Evans released the handbrake and got the van moving once more. “Blimey. To get blown that far it must have been right in the centre of the blast.”
“Yes,” muttered Foxy. “The poor little bugger.”
Wednesday, 29 August 2012
Chapter 9.1
The clouds were looking menacing as D.I. Rhys-Morgan’s Mondeo rolled into the police car park. Despite the threat of rain, however, Rhys-Morgan sat in his car for a few moments after turning the engine off. He wanted some time to collect his thoughts before facing the news that his troops would bring him.
The address that Butterworth had given him had taken the policeman to a flat above “Peter’s Pet Shop”, a small business specialising in birds and reptiles but covering the standard array of small mammals too. No one had answered either when he rang the bell or banged the doorknocker.
There were many innocuous explanations for this: Wendy may have been at the doctor’s, or may have even been too unwell to answer the phone. Indeed, if she was too ill to phone in sick it was unlikely that she would be able to accept visitors. Alternatively, Mr Smeg’s fears may be justified and she may be off somewhere with young Anthony. Then again, Anthony Smeg covered the case of Frank Jackson and Dave Lloyd. Wendy, meanwhile, was a relative, albeit by marriage. If someone had a score to settle, they all made good targets.
The shop itself had been shut, or he would have asked in there if Wendy were about. This was not especially unusual as many shops shut early on a Wednesday but the overall feeling of emptiness and quiet it produced put Rhys-Morgan’s detective hackles up. With nothing more to be learnt from that location, he had taken the precaution of radioing ahead the names of the two absent workers before heading back, so he was expecting a full report on both of them to be sitting on his desk when he got in.
He would just have to wait and see when they turned up. The only real question was whether they would walk in through the front door or were already in the morgue.
The address that Butterworth had given him had taken the policeman to a flat above “Peter’s Pet Shop”, a small business specialising in birds and reptiles but covering the standard array of small mammals too. No one had answered either when he rang the bell or banged the doorknocker.
There were many innocuous explanations for this: Wendy may have been at the doctor’s, or may have even been too unwell to answer the phone. Indeed, if she was too ill to phone in sick it was unlikely that she would be able to accept visitors. Alternatively, Mr Smeg’s fears may be justified and she may be off somewhere with young Anthony. Then again, Anthony Smeg covered the case of Frank Jackson and Dave Lloyd. Wendy, meanwhile, was a relative, albeit by marriage. If someone had a score to settle, they all made good targets.
The shop itself had been shut, or he would have asked in there if Wendy were about. This was not especially unusual as many shops shut early on a Wednesday but the overall feeling of emptiness and quiet it produced put Rhys-Morgan’s detective hackles up. With nothing more to be learnt from that location, he had taken the precaution of radioing ahead the names of the two absent workers before heading back, so he was expecting a full report on both of them to be sitting on his desk when he got in.
He would just have to wait and see when they turned up. The only real question was whether they would walk in through the front door or were already in the morgue.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)