“OK,” Butch agreed reluctantly in response to Cassidy’s goading. “Let’s do this thing.”
The thing turned out to be both dull and tabby-cat-free. The main farmhouse was quiet and deserted. Without a warrant, they could not force their way in and, in contradiction of all the rules for crime dramas, no one had left any of the doors or windows unlocked. The dogs could not find any recent traces of Garth Jones, nor goats or tortoises for that matter. Tommo was getting visibly bored.
After an hour, Kippie decided to pull the plug on the operation. Cassidy had eventually found some signs of life in the form of vehicle and animal tracks near a wooden hut on the outskirts of the property but the recent rain had washed away the detail and it was not clear what kind of vehicle or what kind of animal.
They could have been goat tracks but they could equally have been deer tracks as far as Kippie knew. The manor house a couple of miles north of the Jones farm kept some deer and they regularly escaped.
(The escaping deer always caused mayhem on the local roads. This was not because they caused more accidents, as such. At least, not unless you can accidentally phone up Griff “The Reaver” Evans and his armoured pickup and cause him to accidentally drive around the area until a hapless beast was spotted and then accidentally mow it down at high speed allowing the original caller, who just so happened to be tailing Griff at the time, to claim the carcass in the well-established “if it’s road-kill, it’s not poaching as long as you don’t hit it” myth. Technically, the carcass actually belonged to the local council (or whoever’s land the poor creature was on at the time - Griff had been know go off-road sometimes in his quest for the perfect accident -) but these thing never made it to court. Entirely coincidentally, the local magistrate and Griff “The Reaver” Evans never seemed to be short of a venison sausage or the odd haunch.)
Likewise, the vehicle tracks were not of obvious of interest. Kippie considered taking a mould but decided that (1) the definition was too poor following the rain, (2) there was nothing unusual about keeping a vehicle in a shed on a farm, and (3) she really could not be bothered. Judging by the width and depth, the it was probably a van or four-wheel drive vehicle of some kind and it had been in and out of the hut several times. She made a note to look up Garth’s vehicle collection when they got back to the station.
“Come on,” she sighed. “Let’s make tracks.”
Butch’s ears perked up. “Wouldn’t that be fabricating evidence?”
Kippie looked at him. If she did not know better, she would have interpreted that look as eager willingness rather than shocked reproach. She did not know better: Butch did not just throw the rule-book out of the window when it came to bringing down a suspect, he strapped a brick to it and aimed at the suspect’s head.
“I don’t mean...” she tapered off and pointed at the police van. “Just get in.”
Tuesday, 2 October 2012
Monday, 1 October 2012
Chapter 11.1
A fully-trousered Professor Johnny D. Johnson III waited nervously with Miss Mabel Middlebottom at the entrance to BIRD-FLU as the grey Bentley of Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown pulled up to park outside for the second time in as many days.
Sir Henry had called the previous evening to inform them that NATO were closing the centre until the business with Professor Greenwood was cleared up. With the exception of the mice, the animals were all on their way back to Bristol zoo, which had kindly agreed to put them up at short notice. The other staff had also been sent home. It was just left for Professor Johnson to oversee the lock-up and transfer of the security responsibilities from the usual base staff to some NATO guards. With guns.
Johnson gulped. Although he considered himself as American as Apple Pie (i.e. with European ancestry), guns made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. (He preferred the tridents of the Retiarii or the gladii of the Secutores, although he could appreciate that a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun was considerably more practical.)
He instinctively straightened as Alec Watson opened the rear door to the saloon and Sir Henry emerged. The bureaucrat surveyed the scene and gave a small nod of satisfaction at the sight of the NATO guards, who were already in place. A few strides then took him to the double doors to BIRD-FLU. This time, they were open and ready. Two guards flanked the entrance and gave crisp salutes, which Sir Henry acknowledged with another small nod.
“Sir Henry,” greeted Johnson, extending a slightly sweaty hand for a shake.
The hand was ignored as Sir Henry passed his gaze over the reception area. “I trust all the arrangements are in place, Professor?”
Johnson gulped again. His throat was suddenly very dry. He knew that he had done nothing wrong but still somehow felt like a schoolboy in front of a headmaster. “Sure are, Sir Henry.”
“The animals?”
“All gone bar the mice,” confirmed Johnson. “We are making arrangements in case they need to go too. Some of them are GM and so the licenses for moving around are more complicated.”
“But in hand,” he added as he saw Sir Henry’s frown.
“And the staff?”
“Sent home. Myself and Mildred are the only ones here now,” Johnson told him. “We’ll be leaving as soon as you are satisfied. The guards have been briefed to let in no one except myself and the animal house technician - he’ll need to come in once a day to look after the mice.”
“Good.”
Johnson found his stare drawn to the machine guns. “Umm, Sir Henry, are all the guns really necessary? I mean we don’t even know even something has happened to the director.”
Sir Henry opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by Alec Watson hurrying up with a mobile phone in his hand. The scowl that was beginning to form for the American academic was instead directed at full force at his Cambrian chauffeur.
“You are going to want to take this call, Sir Henry,” Watson insisted.
He took the proffered phone. “Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown.” Pause. “You are quite sure?” Another pause. “Excuse me a moment.”
Sir Henry lowered the phone for a moment and turned back to Johnson. “Regrettably, Professor, it would appear that you are quite wrong.”
Sir Henry had called the previous evening to inform them that NATO were closing the centre until the business with Professor Greenwood was cleared up. With the exception of the mice, the animals were all on their way back to Bristol zoo, which had kindly agreed to put them up at short notice. The other staff had also been sent home. It was just left for Professor Johnson to oversee the lock-up and transfer of the security responsibilities from the usual base staff to some NATO guards. With guns.
Johnson gulped. Although he considered himself as American as Apple Pie (i.e. with European ancestry), guns made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. (He preferred the tridents of the Retiarii or the gladii of the Secutores, although he could appreciate that a Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun was considerably more practical.)
He instinctively straightened as Alec Watson opened the rear door to the saloon and Sir Henry emerged. The bureaucrat surveyed the scene and gave a small nod of satisfaction at the sight of the NATO guards, who were already in place. A few strides then took him to the double doors to BIRD-FLU. This time, they were open and ready. Two guards flanked the entrance and gave crisp salutes, which Sir Henry acknowledged with another small nod.
“Sir Henry,” greeted Johnson, extending a slightly sweaty hand for a shake.
The hand was ignored as Sir Henry passed his gaze over the reception area. “I trust all the arrangements are in place, Professor?”
Johnson gulped again. His throat was suddenly very dry. He knew that he had done nothing wrong but still somehow felt like a schoolboy in front of a headmaster. “Sure are, Sir Henry.”
“The animals?”
“All gone bar the mice,” confirmed Johnson. “We are making arrangements in case they need to go too. Some of them are GM and so the licenses for moving around are more complicated.”
“But in hand,” he added as he saw Sir Henry’s frown.
“And the staff?”
“Sent home. Myself and Mildred are the only ones here now,” Johnson told him. “We’ll be leaving as soon as you are satisfied. The guards have been briefed to let in no one except myself and the animal house technician - he’ll need to come in once a day to look after the mice.”
“Good.”
Johnson found his stare drawn to the machine guns. “Umm, Sir Henry, are all the guns really necessary? I mean we don’t even know even something has happened to the director.”
Sir Henry opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by Alec Watson hurrying up with a mobile phone in his hand. The scowl that was beginning to form for the American academic was instead directed at full force at his Cambrian chauffeur.
“You are going to want to take this call, Sir Henry,” Watson insisted.
He took the proffered phone. “Sir Henry Montague Ponsenby-Brown.” Pause. “You are quite sure?” Another pause. “Excuse me a moment.”
Sir Henry lowered the phone for a moment and turned back to Johnson. “Regrettably, Professor, it would appear that you are quite wrong.”
Saturday, 15 September 2012
Mid-season break
Thursday, 13 September 2012
Chapter 10.6
D.I. Rhys-Morgan pulled a face as he looked over the paperwork on his desk.
“Ow!” cried D.S. Jenkins, for the face was his.
“This doesn’t make any sense, Tommie.”
“I know, Guv, but that’s what the lab boys say.”
Rhys-Morgan sat still for a moment. “I didn’t see that one coming.”
“No, Guv.”
Another pause.
“Well, if that’s what they say… I guess I’d best make a phone call, then.”
“Yes, Guv.”
The paperwork in question was an updated forensics report with another male identification. It did not do Rhys-Morgan’s theorising any good, although it brought the total number of identifications up to seven, in line with the number of different Y-chromosomes in the morgue.
“Any news on the missing female DNA?” he asked.
Tommie coughed and produced another report. “It’s seems that they no longer think they’re missing one, Guv. It turns out that the sisters were actually identical twins. That’s also why they were so confused with the bodies before. Doc Maddock seemed very pleased, anyway. Identical twins means identical DNA, so four different DNA donors means five bodies because one of the four is actually two.”
Rhys-Morgan stared at his left hand in confusion as his fingers tried to follow Tommie’s stream of numbers and his tired brain tried even harder to keep up.
“If you says so, Tommie.”
“Doc Maddock and the lab boys say so, Guv.”
“OK, thanks Tommie. Anything else?”
“Just one thing, Guv.”
“Yes?”
“Can you let go of my face now?”
“Ow!” cried D.S. Jenkins, for the face was his.
“This doesn’t make any sense, Tommie.”
“I know, Guv, but that’s what the lab boys say.”
Rhys-Morgan sat still for a moment. “I didn’t see that one coming.”
“No, Guv.”
Another pause.
“Well, if that’s what they say… I guess I’d best make a phone call, then.”
“Yes, Guv.”
The paperwork in question was an updated forensics report with another male identification. It did not do Rhys-Morgan’s theorising any good, although it brought the total number of identifications up to seven, in line with the number of different Y-chromosomes in the morgue.
“Any news on the missing female DNA?” he asked.
Tommie coughed and produced another report. “It’s seems that they no longer think they’re missing one, Guv. It turns out that the sisters were actually identical twins. That’s also why they were so confused with the bodies before. Doc Maddock seemed very pleased, anyway. Identical twins means identical DNA, so four different DNA donors means five bodies because one of the four is actually two.”
Rhys-Morgan stared at his left hand in confusion as his fingers tried to follow Tommie’s stream of numbers and his tired brain tried even harder to keep up.
“If you says so, Tommie.”
“Doc Maddock and the lab boys say so, Guv.”
“OK, thanks Tommie. Anything else?”
“Just one thing, Guv.”
“Yes?”
“Can you let go of my face now?”
Tuesday, 11 September 2012
Chapter 10.5
Kippie turned off the engine of the police animal van and leant round the back of her chair.
“OK, you guys,” she said through the black metal grill that separated the front of the van from the rear. “Now, remember: Garth Jones is missing. There is a fair chance, therefore, that anyone you meet around here is not Garth Jones.”
“So?” asked Cassidy.
“So, basically, I don’t want you biting the face off of anyone you meet.” She glanced over at the passenger seat. “That includes you, Tommo.”
“Sure thing,” frowned Tommo.
“But,” countered Cassidy with a hint of optimism, “anyone we meet might be Garth Jones!”
“That’s true,” conceded Kippie, nodding. She thought for a moment. “The thing is, though – and believe me, I’m not happy about this either – he probably hasn’t actually done anything wrong. This time. We don’t even have a warrant.”
“What do we have?” asked Cassidy.
Kippie smiled at him and popped open the door. “A license to snoop.”
“I like Snoopy,” said Tommo bashfully, as he unfolded himself onto the gravel drive.
Kippie crunched round to the back of the van and opened the doors for the dogs. Cassidy jumped out, tail wagging enthusiastically. Butch, on the other hand, stayed in the van, looking as sheepish as a German Shepherd can. (He didn’t have the natural advantage of the goats but his observation skills were good.)
“You coming then?” asked Kippie.
“Er… I thought I might just stay here,” he answered. “You know, watch the van, sort of thing. I mean, you don’t really need both of us, do you?”
“Well, it would be quicker,” she replied with a bemused smile.
Behind her, Cassidy sniggered.
“C’mon now,” Kippie pressed. “What’s the problem?”
“Meow!” said Cassidy, and sniggered again as Butch flinched involuntarily. Kippie cocked her head on one side. “Come now. A big ol’ dog like you can’t be scared of a l’il ol’ pussy cat, can you?”
“That’s no cat,” muttered Butch grumpily, edging towards the open doors. “That thing’s a monster! A fell beast. An abomination from the depths of hell itself!”
Kippie smiled. “I didn’t know you had it in you to be so melodramatic! Come on, you big wuss. If Jones is missing then maybe the cat’s gone too.”
“Yeah”, Cassidy agreed. “Or prowling around in confusion, hungry, angry and looking for fresh meat!”
Butch whined but jumped down, glancing about furtively.
“C’mon,” encouraged Cassidy. “Let’s snoop, dog!”
“OK, you guys,” she said through the black metal grill that separated the front of the van from the rear. “Now, remember: Garth Jones is missing. There is a fair chance, therefore, that anyone you meet around here is not Garth Jones.”
“So?” asked Cassidy.
“So, basically, I don’t want you biting the face off of anyone you meet.” She glanced over at the passenger seat. “That includes you, Tommo.”
“Sure thing,” frowned Tommo.
“But,” countered Cassidy with a hint of optimism, “anyone we meet might be Garth Jones!”
“That’s true,” conceded Kippie, nodding. She thought for a moment. “The thing is, though – and believe me, I’m not happy about this either – he probably hasn’t actually done anything wrong. This time. We don’t even have a warrant.”
“What do we have?” asked Cassidy.
Kippie smiled at him and popped open the door. “A license to snoop.”
“I like Snoopy,” said Tommo bashfully, as he unfolded himself onto the gravel drive.
Kippie crunched round to the back of the van and opened the doors for the dogs. Cassidy jumped out, tail wagging enthusiastically. Butch, on the other hand, stayed in the van, looking as sheepish as a German Shepherd can. (He didn’t have the natural advantage of the goats but his observation skills were good.)
“You coming then?” asked Kippie.
“Er… I thought I might just stay here,” he answered. “You know, watch the van, sort of thing. I mean, you don’t really need both of us, do you?”
“Well, it would be quicker,” she replied with a bemused smile.
Behind her, Cassidy sniggered.
“C’mon now,” Kippie pressed. “What’s the problem?”
“Meow!” said Cassidy, and sniggered again as Butch flinched involuntarily. Kippie cocked her head on one side. “Come now. A big ol’ dog like you can’t be scared of a l’il ol’ pussy cat, can you?”
“That’s no cat,” muttered Butch grumpily, edging towards the open doors. “That thing’s a monster! A fell beast. An abomination from the depths of hell itself!”
Kippie smiled. “I didn’t know you had it in you to be so melodramatic! Come on, you big wuss. If Jones is missing then maybe the cat’s gone too.”
“Yeah”, Cassidy agreed. “Or prowling around in confusion, hungry, angry and looking for fresh meat!”
Butch whined but jumped down, glancing about furtively.
“C’mon,” encouraged Cassidy. “Let’s snoop, dog!”
Sunday, 9 September 2012
Chapter 10.4
Detective-Inspector Ifan Rhys-Morgan squinted at the forensics and coroners reports scattered across his desk. Whilst his team was out investigating, he was determined to get his head around the current state of affairs.
There had been a bit of initial lab confusion introduced by the presence of two sisters of similar build and height and shared markers in the DNA analysis. The latest report had confirmed it, though: the eleventh named victim was Antonia Fredricks, sister of Emma Fredricks. In a moment’s cowardice, he felt thankful that he would not be the one visiting the Fredricks house to break the news.
He picked up the coroner’s report and looked at the summary for the third time that morning. The coroner had apparently been watching too much Bones and seemed a little bit too gleeful about what she had described to him on the phone as a “human jigsaw puzzle”. He skipped over the gory details and traced his finger over the bottom line: twelve victims in total, with seven male bodies and five female. Based on dental records, fingerprints and direct facial recognition, eight of these now had names attached to them.
He turned over to where the names were listed and let his eyes linger as his brain processed them again: David and Wendy Lloyd, Frank and Sarah Jackson, Anthony Smeg, Emma and Antonia Fredricks, and Duncan Bridges. That left only three men and one woman still needing identification.
Rhys-Morgan flicked through to the relevant pages. They were getting closer to physical descriptions that they could cross-reference to the missing persons reports. With just over two days since the blast, there was no guarantee that the remaining victims had been reported yet. He would no be too surprised if that did not yield further fruit until tomorrow. Unless the DNA beat them to it, of course.
He dropped it back on the desk and then picked up the latest forensics report. Things were not quite so clear-cut from the lab boys. So far, they had at least eleven confirmed DNA sources: seven male and four female. Of these, only four had confirmed IDs from the records: David Lloyd, Frank Jackson, Patrick Edwards and, unbelievably, Garth Jones. Of these, only David and Frank had also been identified from physical remains.
They were therefore busy trying to match up the remaining seven identified bodies with the DNA they had already, as well as getting the missing female sample. The original collection and analysis had understandably been a little haphazard at first but now that the “human jigsaw” was complete, they could be a bit more systematic.
Two of the female samples had familial matches and presumably belonged to the Fredricks sisters, so they were scheduled to be tested first. The other priority was to match the other two bodiless names from DNA identifications - Patrick Edwards and Garth Jones - to nameless bodies.
Rhys-Morgan placed the report back on his desk and shuffled the stack into some semblance of order before reaching subconsciously for his coffee mug. He drew it to his lips before noticing its emptiness for the third time since the morning’s briefing.
He stared at the stained bottom of the mug as he cogitated. Three men yet to identify and one woman. He had no idea who the latter was. If missing persons didn’t come through, they’d have to start circulating pictures to the media tomorrow. The media. He suppressed a shudder. That was not a part of his job he enjoyed - or was any good at, for that matter.
He turned his mind to the men. Assuming that Patrick and Garth matched bodies, that would leave one Joe Bloggs. The missing Peter Lloyd would complete the set. If that was him. If it wasn’t him... well, then Peter Lloyd would definitely be at the top of the suspects list. He put the mug down. They should stake-out his pet shop in case. Until the motive was sorted out for this, Rhys-Morgan wanted to leave nothing to chance.
There had been a bit of initial lab confusion introduced by the presence of two sisters of similar build and height and shared markers in the DNA analysis. The latest report had confirmed it, though: the eleventh named victim was Antonia Fredricks, sister of Emma Fredricks. In a moment’s cowardice, he felt thankful that he would not be the one visiting the Fredricks house to break the news.
He picked up the coroner’s report and looked at the summary for the third time that morning. The coroner had apparently been watching too much Bones and seemed a little bit too gleeful about what she had described to him on the phone as a “human jigsaw puzzle”. He skipped over the gory details and traced his finger over the bottom line: twelve victims in total, with seven male bodies and five female. Based on dental records, fingerprints and direct facial recognition, eight of these now had names attached to them.
He turned over to where the names were listed and let his eyes linger as his brain processed them again: David and Wendy Lloyd, Frank and Sarah Jackson, Anthony Smeg, Emma and Antonia Fredricks, and Duncan Bridges. That left only three men and one woman still needing identification.
Rhys-Morgan flicked through to the relevant pages. They were getting closer to physical descriptions that they could cross-reference to the missing persons reports. With just over two days since the blast, there was no guarantee that the remaining victims had been reported yet. He would no be too surprised if that did not yield further fruit until tomorrow. Unless the DNA beat them to it, of course.
He dropped it back on the desk and then picked up the latest forensics report. Things were not quite so clear-cut from the lab boys. So far, they had at least eleven confirmed DNA sources: seven male and four female. Of these, only four had confirmed IDs from the records: David Lloyd, Frank Jackson, Patrick Edwards and, unbelievably, Garth Jones. Of these, only David and Frank had also been identified from physical remains.
They were therefore busy trying to match up the remaining seven identified bodies with the DNA they had already, as well as getting the missing female sample. The original collection and analysis had understandably been a little haphazard at first but now that the “human jigsaw” was complete, they could be a bit more systematic.
Two of the female samples had familial matches and presumably belonged to the Fredricks sisters, so they were scheduled to be tested first. The other priority was to match the other two bodiless names from DNA identifications - Patrick Edwards and Garth Jones - to nameless bodies.
Rhys-Morgan placed the report back on his desk and shuffled the stack into some semblance of order before reaching subconsciously for his coffee mug. He drew it to his lips before noticing its emptiness for the third time since the morning’s briefing.
He stared at the stained bottom of the mug as he cogitated. Three men yet to identify and one woman. He had no idea who the latter was. If missing persons didn’t come through, they’d have to start circulating pictures to the media tomorrow. The media. He suppressed a shudder. That was not a part of his job he enjoyed - or was any good at, for that matter.
He turned his mind to the men. Assuming that Patrick and Garth matched bodies, that would leave one Joe Bloggs. The missing Peter Lloyd would complete the set. If that was him. If it wasn’t him... well, then Peter Lloyd would definitely be at the top of the suspects list. He put the mug down. They should stake-out his pet shop in case. Until the motive was sorted out for this, Rhys-Morgan wanted to leave nothing to chance.
Friday, 7 September 2012
Chapter 10.3
Mystic Mog tried fruitlessly to rub the sleep from her eyes. She was still not sleeping well and today’s news from the goats was not going to help. She sighed. “That could have gone better.”
“It could have gone worse.” Cyril told her. “They’re still alive for one thing.”
“Yeah!” added Billy.
“And I didn’t lose him this time!” said William.
“True,” conceded Mog. “But we still don’t know where Pan was taking him.”
“Wherever it was,” said Cyril, “it doesn’t look like he was heading for the same place as before.”
“Why would he?” asked Mog. “Presumably he achieved everything he wanted to the night before.”
“Maybe,” Cyril conceded. “But by that reckoning, he didn’t last night, so he may try again tonight.”
Mog thought for a moment. “True, I guess. I’m not really sure how that helps us, though.”
“William,” said Cyril, his tailing flicking in excitement as inspiration took hold. “Do you remember the route that you and Billy took last night?”
“I… I think so.” William told him.
“Good! Tonight, I want you to tie yourselves together as before. This time, however, I want you to go to sleep in a different spot. Try to work out the direction you were heading and pick one of Toby Ron’s fields that should let you bypass Watchtower Valley. Toby Ron and Duke should be able to help you there.”
Mog nodded. “Yes! That should work. If in doubt about the location, err on the side of caution. We don’t want you going through that field again. If Pan keeps failing, he might seek out a different vehicle.”
“Don’t worry,” Billy told him. “We really don’t want to go through there again!”
“Good!” smiled Cyril. “In the meantime, I suggest that you go home and make sure that William gets as much rest as he can before sundown. With any luck, he’s going to have a busy night.”
“It could have gone worse.” Cyril told her. “They’re still alive for one thing.”
“Yeah!” added Billy.
“And I didn’t lose him this time!” said William.
“True,” conceded Mog. “But we still don’t know where Pan was taking him.”
“Wherever it was,” said Cyril, “it doesn’t look like he was heading for the same place as before.”
“Why would he?” asked Mog. “Presumably he achieved everything he wanted to the night before.”
“Maybe,” Cyril conceded. “But by that reckoning, he didn’t last night, so he may try again tonight.”
Mog thought for a moment. “True, I guess. I’m not really sure how that helps us, though.”
“William,” said Cyril, his tailing flicking in excitement as inspiration took hold. “Do you remember the route that you and Billy took last night?”
“I… I think so.” William told him.
“Good! Tonight, I want you to tie yourselves together as before. This time, however, I want you to go to sleep in a different spot. Try to work out the direction you were heading and pick one of Toby Ron’s fields that should let you bypass Watchtower Valley. Toby Ron and Duke should be able to help you there.”
Mog nodded. “Yes! That should work. If in doubt about the location, err on the side of caution. We don’t want you going through that field again. If Pan keeps failing, he might seek out a different vehicle.”
“Don’t worry,” Billy told him. “We really don’t want to go through there again!”
“Good!” smiled Cyril. “In the meantime, I suggest that you go home and make sure that William gets as much rest as he can before sundown. With any luck, he’s going to have a busy night.”
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