by Tim Ellis
As the clock on the wall struck midnight, the countdown clock on the screen disappeared and the website displayed fourteen GPS co-ordinates around the world – Warsaw, Paris, Seattle, Seoul, Arizona, California, New Orleans, Moscow, Miami, Sydney, Hawaii, Manchester, Stockholm and Nagasaki. Then, one by one, what was located at those co-ordinates was revealed on the site by the people who lived in the places – they were all photographs of a poster, attached to a lamppost, with the cicada image and a QR (Quick Response) code.
She held her phone to the black and white code on the screen. It took her to another website address, which she copied back to her computer. As she did, she noticed a name she'd seen a number of times before – Samoon. As well as a hot, whirling wind in the Sahara and Arabian Desert that can move vast quantities of sand, it was also Arabic for "poison". A number of the hunters had suggested that Samoon was disseminating false clues.
Then, taking her completely by surprise, the website shut down, leaving only a short fading message:
We want the best, not the rest.
And then the screen went blank. She tried to backtrack, recover, salvage, but it appeared as though the scavenger hunt had come to an end – at least for her. There were no more clues, no more hidden messages, no more puzzles, no more websites – it was an anti-climax. Her shoulders sagged and she stared at the blank screen.
There was a soft tapping on the door. She knew exactly who it was.
'Lucy?'
'Go away, Quigg.'
'I have your surprise present out here.'
'And that's exactly where it's going to stay. Go away. I'm busy.'
'I could warm you up.'
'Go away.'
It went quiet.
While she'd been watching the movie with the others, she had this idea that the first clue was probably the truth – the scavenger hunt was simply a decoy. Within a short space of time, she'd become hooked, obsessed, addicted and had forgotten that she was meant to be looking for the chairman and the shadow board. If Li Xue had found the link in a partially deleted folder on the Human Engineered Software server, then she was guessing that it must be connected, but how? Getting involved in the hunt had only led her into a blind alley, a cul-de-sac, a brick wall. But maybe the link had inadvertently given her a way into the enterprise.
She wrote a program to search for all instances of Samoon on Google; Family Tree Now; Zabasearch; online phone directories and databases; obituaries and death notices; Facebook; public records; PeekYou; Pipl; Wink; LinkedIn; reverse mobile number lookups and a dozen other search tools. She also wrote a simpler program to search the darknet for Samoon.
While the two programs were running on separate computers, she keyed in the website address her father had directed her to. It belonged to a group calling themselves Beautiful Species, which was the same name as that on the t-shirt her father had given her. As she read the message on the webpage, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. They argued that the implants – instead of being the next stage in human evolution – fulfilled an end-of-days prophecy where people are branded with the "mark of the beast". She grunted. So, now she was one of Satan's minions. Something else that didn't make sense. On the one hand Beautiful Species were selling microchip implants, and on the other they were making dire warnings that the microchips were the mark of the beast. Maybe they were two separate companies, but that was unlikely.
Why had her father directed her to the website? She sent him a text message:
Thanks for the t-shirt. What's with the website?
He texted her back almost immediately:
What website?
Don't mess around. On your note was a website written in invisible ink that was only revealed when I accidentally spilled coke on it.
Is that the type of thing I would do?
No it wasn't. But if he hadn't hidden the website on the scrap of paper, who had? He must have written the note to her on paper that he'd obtained from the place where he'd bought the microchip and/or the pneumatic gun – that would make sense. It would also make sense that they might use paper with their website written in invisible ink as a marketing ploy.
What about the name? What did it mean? She assumed that Beautiful Species referred to humans, although she didn't think humans were in any way a beautiful species. She agreed with David Attenborough when he said that they were more like a plague on the face of the planet.
She returned to interrogate the website, but it was only one page forecasting the end of the world, so she googled Beautiful Species and found that the name more than likely referred to the most beautiful animals in the world – Sunset Moth; Tiger; Poison Dart Frog; Swallow-Tailed Hummingbird; Candy Crab; Cicada Killer . . . Sphecius speciosus – Sphecius beautiful, which was a large hawk wasp that killed cicadas.
What the hell was going on? Was it simply a coincidence? How could there possibly be any connection between the scavenger hunt, the cicada and her father's present? There couldn't be, could there? It was impossible, wasn't it?
She called her father.
'I'm busy,' he said.
'We're all busy. Some of us are busier than others, because of weird birthday presents. Tell me about the microchip.'
'What's to tell? I was scrabbling around for something to buy you for your birthday . . .'
'I'm filling up.'
'When I came across a leaflet from a local shop advertising human chip implants . . .'
'Came across a leaflet! What does that mean?'
'I was in a cafe last Thursday morning that I sometimes go in for breakfast. The leaflet was on the table. I read it while I was eating.'
'Just on your table?'
'I don't know. I didn't look. Why are you asking?'
'No reason.'
'I see you've already implanted the chip?'
'It was a mistake.'
'Mistake or not, I can see where you are on my phone.'
'Great! Where's the instruction booklet?'
'What instruction booklet?'
'Everything comes with an instruction booklet these days.'
'That's all they gave me – the t-shirt and the pneumatic gun. The chip was already in the chamber ready to be implanted. I asked the woman behind the counter for a piece of paper to write a short note to my one and only and what you've got is what she gave me.'
'Is that all the chip does – tells you where I am?'
'She said it was programmable.'
'So, where's the booklet that tells you how to do that?'
'There was no instruction booklet with it.'
'You're not being very helpful.'
'It's a bit of technology. As soon as I saw the leaflet I knew I had to buy it for you. I know how much you love the latest gadgets. I thought you'd be pleased. And, of course, I know where you are all the time now.'
'Which I'm not happy about.'
'Then why did you implant the chip?'
'That's a good question.'
'I'll try not to look at where you are too often.'
'How kind. Where did you buy it from?'
'A small shop on Black's Street, which is just off Hammersmith Broadway called Beautiful Species, or something like that. The name is on the t-shirt.'
'What about the receipt?'
'I didn't keep it.'
She blew a raspberry. 'SAS, my arse.'
'Shopping isn't part of the training.'
'Maybe it should be.'
'I'll let them know. They're always interested in innovative ideas. Is that all you wanted?'
'And I didn't even get that.'
'Goodbye, my one and only.'
The call ended.
It was surely far-fetched to believe that the microchip was specifically meant for her; that the leaflet had been planted on the table in her father's regular cafe; that they knew it was her birthday; that her father had simply been the means of delivery. No, that was absolutely crazy. She hadn't even known when her birthday was, so how could anyone else? And then there
was the name of the shop – Beautiful Species, and the link to the cicada, the scavenger hunt and ultimately back to the link that Li had found in the partially deleted folder on Alf Faager's Human Engineered Software server. It wasn't making any sense.
Her phone pinged, lit up and a text message with a darknet web address appeared on the screen behind a fading outline of a cicada:
The path lies empty;
epiphany seeks the devoted.
Liber Primus is the way.
Its words are the map,
their meaning is the road,
and their numbers are the direction.
dxwd42hgpd7qrccm.onion
What the hell! How had they connected to her phone? Of course! They'd accessed her phone through the Radio Frequency Identifier in the microchip that she'd implanted into her hand. Oh God! Was she back in the hunt? Had she been personally chosen as one of the intelligent people?
But then, her computers started to go haywire . . .
***
She'd been busy having orgasms last night, so she woke up early to catch up with the work she'd sacrificed for those orgasms. Sitting naked and cross-legged on the bed with her laptop balanced precariously in-between her legs, she sent Perkins an email with the séance video recording attached. She explained that she'd noticed the minute hand on the Victorian black slate mantle clock on the mantlepiece had jumped about ten minutes at the point the woman had disappeared, but that when they'd visited the house the following morning, the second and minute hands were moving normally and the time was correct. but the elapsed time on the video had continued without a break. She wondered how long it would be before Perkins got back to her. Could it be an alien abduction? Did she believe in aliens? After what had happened with the demonic possession in Copperfield Street, she didn't know what she believed anymore.
Lucy had sent Harry a copy of the séance video, so she didn't need to worry about that. And Harry had sent her an MP3 of the EVP recording he'd made to capture any ghostly voices, which she downloaded and saved into a folder she'd created for the investigation. On her desktop, she found two icons that Lucy had put there. One was for the Audacity program, and the second linked to an idiot's guide on how to use it. She clicked on the idiot's guide first and read the instructions. It seemed quite simple – play, pause, stop – what more did she need to know? An idiot could use it! Next, she clicked on the Audacity icon, plugged in her earphones, placed them over her ears, opened the EVP file, and pressed "play".
After listening to the whole recording she found that she couldn't hear anything. The on-screen visual of the audio track resembled the flatline of a corpse's heart monitor. She increased the sound level – still nothing. Maybe she was doing it wrong. She increased the sound level again, this time to maximum. A couple of minutes into the recording she saw the line spike and thought she heard something . . . Was it a ghostly voice?
It took her by surprise, because she wasn't really expecting to see or hear anything. She moved the needle back half-a-dozen times on the visual display, re-played the section and kept listening to it. There was definitely something there. She found "Effects" on the drop-down menu, increased "Amplify" and listened again,. Then she heard it:
The night is here . . . The crows are burning.
She had to listen to it a number of times to make sure she wasn't hearing things and wrote the message down in her journal. But what did it mean? Which night? What crows? Why are they burning? Did the voice really belong to a ghost in the room? She shook Ruth.
'I am sleeping.'
'Listen to this,' she said, holding out the headphones. 'It's the voice of a ghost.'
'No, it is not. You are just saying that to make me wake up.'
'I promise – it's a ghost.'
Ruth sat up, yawned, rubbed her eyes and put the earphones on.
Duffy played the section.
After listening to the voice, Ruth snatched the earphones off her head and threw them at Duffy. 'Somebody is trying to scare you. I do not like it.'
'Harry made the recording in a silent empty room. We were both there, but there was no one else in the room.'
'What does it mean?'
'Remember, we're looking for a woman who disappeared from a séance, so what crows burning in the night have to do with anything, I have no idea.'
'Creepy!'
'I'll say.'
'I am going to get ready for work now that you have woken me up,' Ruth said, sliding out of bed. 'Where is Quigg?'
'Not seen him.'
'Do you think he was satisfied?'
'If he wasn't, then there's something seriously wrong with him.'
'I am satisfied.'
Duffy grinned. 'And me.'
Once Ruth had left she messaged Harry:
Have you listened to the EVP?
Yes.
Did you hear it?
I didn't hear anything.
The voice after about three minutes. Put the volume up to maximum, go to "Effects" and "Amplify".
All of a sudden she was an expert!
There was nothing for about six minutes and then:
My goodness! We've hit the jackpot here, Duffy. I heard: The night is here . . . The crows are burning. What does it mean? And how is it related to Estelle Adams' disappearance?
I haven't got any answers, Harry. Let's think about it. I have to get ready now, but I'll meet you at Estelle Adam's house: 17 Jubilee Place, Chelsea at ten o'clock.
See you there.
After taking a shower, she was slipping into her underwear when Quigg came into the bedroom munching on toast and attempted to molest her.
'No.'
'No? I'm not familiar with that word.'
'I don't want you to drip butter all over my underwear, and I especially don't want to go out smelling of toast.'
'Are you meeting Gingernut again?'
'Mmmm! He's so good looking. I think I might have an affair with him.'
'I know you're only joking.'
'Am I?
'Last night was the best, Duffy.'
'I'm glad you enjoyed yourself.'
'I most definitely did. We should do it again very soon. What about tonight?'
'Ah! You think you're off the hook now, do you?'
'I don't know what you mean.'
'Have a nice day, Quigg.'
Licking the dripping butter off his fingers, he headed for the door. 'And you, Duffy.'
***
He really wanted to stay and welcome the new nanny – Jessie Doll, but he didn't have the time, because she wasn't arriving until nine o'clock. Lucy didn't say whether the woman was attractive or not. In fact, apart from her name, which was weirdly unusual, she hadn't provided him with any information about the new nanny. How old was she? Did she have any children of her own? What experience did she have of looking after other people's children? He had a lot of questions he'd like to ask her. Oh well! He'd just have to wait until tomorrow to welcome her into the Quigg household. Jessie Doll! He hadn't heard the surname before and he wondered if she was actually English.
He wandered up to Ruth's room and found her in the shower. Shrugging out of his dressing gown, he climbed in behind her.
'What are you doing, Quigg?'
'There are prizes for guessing correctly,' he said as he caressed her breasts and entered her.
'Are you wearing . . .?
'I'll pull out.'
'That did not work last time you tried to do it.'
'Trust me.'
She moaned, leaned against the wall and spread her arms and legs like a suspect.
He was so busy frisking her that he forgot to pull out.
'You didn't pull out.'
'I got carried away.'
'If I am pregnant . . .'
'What are the chances?'
He hadn't had a shave, so he needed to go back to his own room, shave, take another shower and then get dressed. Afterwards, he made himself two pieces of buttered toast in the kitchen, walked around k
issing everyone goodbye – except Lucy, because she refused to answer or open her door – and then left for the station. He had another busy day ahead of him.
After parking his new Mercedes in the car park, he made his way up to his office. There was no sign of Rummage, but she'd left a note on his desk that read:
Down in the interview suite interviewing the four possible suspects: Joseph Eastham, Eamon Lobbe, Landon Rouen and Wyn Jones.
He ambled down to the interview suite.
'Oh good!' she said when she saw him. 'We can start the interviews now.'
'I haven't had my coffee yet, Rummage.' He screwed up his face as if he'd been presented with a complicated puzzle. 'Didn't you have those clothes on yesterday?'
'Don't be ridiculous.'
'Mmmm! If you say so. Women's clothes all look the same to me. Anyway, I was thinking that you're quite capable of interviewing four suspects on your own. Not only that, there'd be continuity if you interview them all yourself.'
'And are you taking the day off?'
'Don't think it hasn't crossed my mind. I didn't sleep well at all last night, but no. We have a lot to get through today and dividing our collective resources makes sense. While you're interviewing our only four suspects, I'll drive over to the waxworks, check everything is as it should be, meet the architect and tell them what I want, drive back here to pick you up, and then we'll go to the mortuary to interrogate Doctor Solberg. I'm thinking that she must have some answers by now, or my name's not Kevin the Carrot.'