“And the only clue that you can offer,” clarified Inspector Mallow, who had been sat silently until this point, “is the last words of a dying man; I got soul?”
“And this key,” said Urban-Smith, reaching into his pocket and withdrawing the key and fob presented to him by Konrad Schwarzkröte. “The address is that of a lock-up garage in Cambridge.” He handed the key to DCI Arsolé. “I believe that the solution to our riddle may be found there.”
“Who else knows of this?” asked the DCI.
“Only the four of us.”
“Alright then,” said DCI Arsolé. “Mallow. I want you to take some officers and secure that lock-up. Mr Urban-Smith, Dr Harker and I will follow you down shortly.”
Mallow hastened from the office to assemble his team.
“Mr Urban-Smith,” said Arsolé. “Why did you not contact me yesterday when you first received this information?”
“Ah. I thought this might come up.” Urban-Smith shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “After the shooting broke out at the museum, I was involuntarily detained by a third party who wishes to remain anonymous.”
“This is a police investigation of a terrorist incident, Mr Urban-Smith. Withholding information is not an option.”
“Nonetheless,” insisted Urban-Smith. “Withhold it I must. I have been warned to maintain this person’s confidence under pain of death, something which I am most anxious to avoid. All I can offer you is the assurance that they are not responsible for what has happened this morning.”
“Very well,” said the DCI with obvious reticence. “I’ll have to take you at your word for now.” He glanced at the clock upon the wall. “If we head off now, we should be there by midday.”
“Would it be possible,” asked Urban-Smith, “to take a slight detour via the Upstart residence? I believe that there may be physical evidence at the vicarage that could shed some light on Adam Upstart’s death.”
“That reminds me, Chief Inspector,” said I. “Do you have his autopsy report?”
“Not yet.”
I withdrew my mobile telephone from my pocket. “I’ll contact Gibson and ask if he has Upstart’s toxicology screen and blood results.”
As we decanted from DCI Arsolé’s office and filed down the corridor, I dialled Steinway’s number.
“Hello?”
“Gibson. It’s Rupert.”
“Rupert,” he bellowed. “Grand to hear from you. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Any definitive results on Adam Upstart?”
“Oh yes. I was going to email you. His beta-hydroxybutyrate level was 18.6, blood alcohol level was 40, and the toxicology screen confirmed recent cannabis use, but nothing harder.”
“Right you are, Gibson. Thanks awfully.” I terminated the call. “Adam Upstart died from diabetic ketoacidosis; the test results have confirmed it.”
“That means that his blood sugar was too high,” replied DCI Arsolé. “Is that correct?”
“Yes indeed,” I confirmed.
“I think somebody has tampered with Adam Upstart’s insulin,” said Urban-Smith.
“That would explain the high blood sugar,” I concurred, “but he would have developed symptoms some time before he was rendered incapable. Why did he remain locked away in the cellar rather than seeking assistance?”
“That is what we must endeavour to discover, Rupert. Chief Inspector, do you have a set of steps and a torch? I shall need to do a little climbing.”
*
Although it was half past midday when we arrived at the Upstart house, it took several minutes of knocking to induce a response from Cain Upstart, who answered the door looking as if he had not long since gone to bed, and sporting a positively murderous look on his face.
DCI Arsolé flashed his credentials. “Mr Upstart. I’m sorry to disturb you, but we need to inspect the cellar.”
“You got a warrant?” was the surly reply.
“This is the site of an active police investigation, Mr Upstart. We don’t require a warrant.”
With a snort and a sigh, Cain Upstart opened the door wide to allow us entry, and Arsolé led me and Urban-Smith towards the cellar. The remains of the shattered door had been cleared from the cellar steps, though a good portion of the door remained in situ. As Urban-Smith and the DCI descended the stairs, I paused to inspect the door, its hinges, and the bolts on its inner and outer aspects. The whole affair seemed extremely robust, and it was apparent that Adam Upstart had considered the cellar to be strictly off limits to all. This, coupled with his alibi, seemed to put Cain Upstart in the clear.
“May we borrow you for a sec, Rupert?”
I trundled down the stairs to join in the proceedings. Urban-Smith had opened all the cupboards and was tapping and prodding at the backs of each.
“There is no sign of a crawlspace or hiding place behind these units,” he announced. “You have the torch?” I handed him the torch, and he lay down upon the floor and began inspecting every nook and cranny. “You see, of course, the importance of being the first on the scene, Rupert. This floor is now riddled with footprints and marks; inevitable really. You can still see the trail in the dust where Upstart was dragged along from hither to thither, but it is indistinct and partially obliterated.” He picked himself up from the floor. “The floor is intact.”
Next he examined the bathroom. He poked and prodded the walls, ceiling and fixtures and rattled the extractor fan. “This fan is secured from the inside; it would not be possible to remove and replace it from outside without visibly damaging it. The bathroom has not provided a means of entry.”
“Have you ever read the Sherlock Holmes tale, The Speckled Band?” I enquired.
“Several times,” replied Urban-Smith. “It is the one in which a poisonous snake is introduced through the air vent.”
“Precisely,” I replied. “Could something similar have been employed here?”
“A poisonous snake would be too small to drag a man across the floor,” Urban-Smith replied, “and a boa constrictor too large to introduce through a vent.”
“Could it be introduced via the plumbing?”
“The toilet?” Urban-Smith shook his head. “It would never fit through the U-bend, and besides, there is no evidence of anything slithering across the floor other than Mr Upstart himself.” He extricated himself from the lavatory and began unfolding the step ladder. “I must say though, Rupert, it is precisely this sort of lateral thinking that is so crucial in a case such as this; you have the makings of a fine detective, albeit a pocket-sized one.”
“Doctor,” said Arsolé, “would you mind explaining to me the contents of these cupboards? Why is there so much sugary food?”
“The insulin-dependent diabetic is at risk of overtreating themselves and succumbing to a low blood sugar, a situation even more dangerous than a high blood sugar. This can be overcome by the consumption of sugary food, hence all this. There is also a glucagon kit in the refrigerator, which can be injected to produce a rise in blood sugar.”
Arsolé opened the refrigerator to examine the contents while Urban-Smith climbed the step ladder and inspected the ceiling for hidden hatches or defects.
“Fairfax thinks the insulin may have been tampered with,” I said, retrieving Adam Upstart’s insulin cartridges from their home in the refrigerator door. I held one up to the light. “The contents are cloudy; that’s normal.”
“Would it be difficult to tamper with the insulin?” asked the DCI.
“Not at all.” I rotated the glass cartridge for his perusal. “This end has a rubber cap onto which the needle fits. One could easily siphon the contents with a needle and syringe, or add something to it.” I picked up the orange glucagon kit. “In fact, if I wished to tamper with this insulin, I would immerse the cartridge in boiling water to inactivate it and then introduce glucagon. This would ensure that each dose produced a rise rather than a fall in blood sugar.”
“Ingenious,” said DCI Arsolé, “and with only one flaw in t
he argument; the insulin vials from each pen have been sent for analysis and reported as satisfactory.”
By now, Urban-Smith had finished studying the basement ceiling and was prowling about the walls, shining his light into the darkest recesses.
“Any progress?” I asked.
“A few more minutes, please.”
“Chief Inspector.” I inclined my head towards the cellar exit. “How does one pick open a sturdy padlock, such as those with which Adam Upstart secured the cellar door each day?”
“I don’t know,” he replied, “but I suspect you could find the answer with the right contacts, such as those that you may meet during a three-month prison sentence.”
We stood and watched Urban-Smith as he worked his way back and forth across the face of each cellar wall until, with a grunt of satisfaction, he completed his exertions and hailed us to him.
“See here,” said Urban-Smith, indicating with the torchlight. “This is where Upstart’s body was found; see the marks on the wall where he has been pushed against it. And look up here towards the ceiling. One of the uppermost bricks has been removed and replaced at some point; the surrounding mortar is clearly darker than the rest. Notice also how the mortar beneath the brick has been broken or scratched away. And further over here, another brick has been similarly adapted.”
He fetched over the steps and, liberating his Swiss Army penknife from his pocket, climbed to the aforementioned brick and began chipping away at the mortar.
“Aha,” he cried triumphantly. “Come and see for yourself. This brick has been extracted, surrounded with thin plastic and the mortar repaired.” He climbed down and handed the torch to DCI Arsolé, who made his own inspection before allowing me to do the same.
“You’re right,” confirmed the DCI. “Somebody wanted to remove this brick quickly if the need arose.” Arsolé seemed perplexed. “But to what end?”
“Are you going to be much longer?” Cain Upstart was at the top of the cellar stairs.
“No, Mr Upstart,” said Urban-Smith, placing his finger upon his lips to encourage silence. “We are done here. Thank you for your co-operation.” He collected the torch and steps and headed up the stairs, along the corridor and out, with Arsolé and myself in pursuit.
The front door slammed shut behind us, and Urban-Smith hastened around the side of the house to the east wall. “Here, here,” he called. “Look at this. These are the two bricks, here and here. If we were to scrape away the mortar, they would slide straight out, affording us an excellent view of the basement. There is no external lighting at this side of the house; it must be pitch black overnight.” He indicated another spot a few feet further down. “These two bricks here are sporting drill holes and wall plugs. Something was attached here. The edges of the holes are lighter than the surrounding bricks; this is also recent.”
We were interrupted by a burst of music from the mobile telephone in DCI Arsolé’s jacket pocket.
“Arsolé here. Yes. We’re on our way.” He terminated the call. “That was Mallow. He’s ready for us. Are we finished here, Mr Urban-Smith?”
“For now, Inspector. For now.”
◆◆◆
21. Thine to Suffer
The lock-up garage was located on an industrial estate close to the city centre. I recognised Inspector Mallow’s Mondeo parked at a jaunty angle alongside a patrol car outside the entrance, which was flanked on the one side by a burly young constable, and on the other by the fair PC Worthy. Inspector Mallow was inside the garage, rummaging through the contents.
“It looks to be mostly junk,” he reported. “Old furniture, old clothes, books, that sort of thing.”
“Somewhere in here,” said Urban-Smith, “is a roll of microfilm. That is what we need.”
“You two,” said DCI Arsolé, hailing the constables in from outside. “Search this place. We’re looking for a roll of microfilm. Ignore the hard furnishings, check everything else.”
Urban-Smith and I busied ourselves systematically opening and going through the piles of cardboard boxes stacked at the far end of the garage. The lighting was poor, so we resorted to carrying each box out to the pavement to make our inspection. After an hour or so, we had rejected most of the garage’s contents, and were left with barely a handful of boxes containing papers, books, magazines and several passports, each bearing a different name and nationality.
“I found it.” PC Worthy emerged from the musty garage, clutching a roll of celluloid upon a bakelite reel.
“Does your station possess a microfilm reader, Chief Inspector?” asked Urban-Smith.
“No, but our digital forensic branch will. I’ll have them convert it and burn it to a disc for you. It may take them some time.”
“Please ask then to hurry.” Urban-Smith wrung his hands. “We must reach the Atman first. I dread to think what horrors Hitler’s Archive may contain.” He turned his attention to the kerbside boxes. “May I be allowed to have first dibs on these?”
“Certainly. We’ll have them straight back to the station for your perusal.”
“Mr Urban-Smith.” Inspector Mallow had appeared at our periphery. “How did you get on at the Upstart house?”
“It proved to be a most constructive visit,” said he, “but I think it may pay dividends if Rupert and I were to return after dark and follow the movements of the surviving Upstart. Do you think that you would be able to spare us a uniformed officer, just in case things should become unpleasant?”
“I’m afraid not. Any directed surveillance has to be authorised by the Chief Constable. If you choose to illegally trespass on Mr Upstart’s property, you do so without my consent and at your own risk.”
Urban-Smith tapped the side of his nose. “I understand, Inspector. We shall be circumspect.”
“You’ll be circumcised if Mr Upstart catches you. Castrated too, most likely.” Mallow turned to PC Worthy. “Worthy. You and PC Burly get this lot back to the station, ASAP.”
“Yes, Sir.”
We waited with Arsolé and Mallow while the constables secured the garage and loaded the boxes into the back of the patrol car, before trundling westwards back to Scragnell Police Station. Within half an hour, Urban-Smith and I were seated in the station’s conference room, rummaging through the contents of the first box. There were bank statements, utility bills, a rent agreement and various other trivial documents, all notable only for the name, Sebastian Kaminsky, which had evidently been Schwarzkröte’s alias at the time of his death. The rest of the papers were various newspaper and magazine articles, several current affairs magazines and a few books of piano music.
The other three boxes were very similar affairs, and within the hour, we had distilled the contents down to a very manageable inch or two of documents, most of which seemed wholly unremarkable.
“I never had the opportunity to enquire, Fairfax. What was the outcome of your encounter with Smirnitsky’s men?”
Urban-Smith set aside his handful of papers to relate his tale. “As soon as they heard the sirens, they insisted that I leave with them through the back of the museum. I strongly resisted, but between the two of them, they easily bested me, and I was unable to come to your aid. I was unceremoniously bundled into the back of a white van before we hared away onto Queensgate and beat a hasty retreat…..”
*
The drive to Tilbury Docks takes about an hour but it is not comfortable, and Urban-Smith is restive and fretful, concerned more for the welfare of his friend and colleague, Dr Rupert Harker, than for his own safety. He knows that if the FSB wished him dead, he would not have made it thus far.
As before, The Iron Lung is moored at the west side of the dock. The van pulls up between two rows of shipping containers, and the four occupants disembark, the driver taking the lead, Urban-Smith and the suited FSB agents at the rear.
The docks are busy and bustling, and nobody pays attention to one more van. Urban-Smith is led up The Iron Lung’s gangplank, across the deck to the deckhouse, and then u
p a few flights of metal steps, past the crew quarters and into the compass bridge where the Russian Military Attaché, Colonel Maksim Smirnitsky, sits in one of the pilot’s seats, puffing on a Havana cigar. As always, his hair and beard are trimmed short, and today he wears casual slacks and a thick woollen jumper. His blue eyes narrow as Urban-Smith enters the bridge, and he indicates the other seat with his cigar. The three FSB men depart, leaving The Colonel and Urban-Smith alone in the compass bridge.
“Thank you for joining me, Mr Urban-Smith.”
“You left me little choice, Colonel. No choice, in fact.” Urban-Smith is not best amused. “Could you not have contacted me by telephone or email?”
“This matter is extremely delicate,” says The Colonel. “Now that the Fervent Fist has infiltrated the mobile telephone network, it is not safe to assume the security of any electronic communication.” He absent-mindedly flicks cigar ash onto the floor and takes a deep drag before continuing. “I have been sanctioned to advise you that the FSB is willing to offer their assistance in the identification and location of Saxon Schwarzkröte. However, there are two provisos. The first is that once Schwarzkröte is located, you will immediately contact our agents to apprehend him. You are to contact no other party. The second is that you will say nothing of our involvement in this matter; absolute confidence must be guaranteed. In exchange, you will be assigned an FSB liaison here in London who will endeavour to assist you in any way possible, providing that it does not compromise the covert nature of our involvement. Do you agree?”
Urban-Smith’s features betray nothing, but beneath the surface his mind is weighing up the implications of what he has heard.
“What if I should refuse, Colonel?”
“I cannot force you to accept my help, Mr Urban-Smith, but there is something that I must make plain. President Putin wishes the FSB to maintain an extremely low-profile in the capital until the Sun has set upon the Litvinenko scandal, and if you implicate myself or my employers in the course of your enquiries, the consequences shall be severe.”
The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood Page 18