The Timepiece and the Girl Who Went Astray: A thrilling new time travel adventure

by O. R. Simmonds

  Will flipped the paper over. Printed on the back was a vintage crest for the Metropolitan Police force. Perhaps this was originally some form of police administration document. Most of the text was too smudged and faded to read but from what little was legible, it appeared to detail the movement of a prisoner from one cell to another. A man matching Frenz Belingi’s description had apparently been moved to an adjacent cell after he was suspected of tampering with the integrity of his previous cell in some way.

  The bottom of the paper was dated, but Will could only make out the year: 1940. He turned to look at the body of Frenz Belingi and said, ‘Wait a sec, the year nineteen forty. The combination one, nine, four, zero. And all the clocks stopped at seven forty. There’s a pattern here, but none of it makes any sense. But then, I am talking to a dead man.’

  He gently folded the piece of paper and patted down his pockets, looking for an appropriate place to safely store it. He cursed himself when his hand passed over the balled-up gloves in his jacket, one of which had the watch wedged inside.

  You know what would have been ideal things to wear at a crime scene, Will? Gloves. Too late now.

  He instead pulled the watch from its molten sleeve and replaced it with the paper and the ID card. The watch had cooled completely, and now seemed far too important to just carry in his pocket, so he wrapped the thick leather strap around his wrist. The end of the strap split into two strips, which he tightened into their buckles.

  He took one last look around the counter, turned off the lights, regarded the shop owner’s body for a moment, making a silent motion of gratitude towards him, and then carefully made his way towards the front of the shop. He reached the bottom of the steps, climbed them two at a time and exited into the narrow alleyway.

  He was then struck by a nauseating feeling of déjà vu. Just as he’d experienced the last time, he left Frenz Belingi’s shop, he saw two figures striding decisively towards him. Their arms swung commandingly at their sides and their target seemed clear. They were both silhouetted by the single working lamp behind them, and Will could clearly see one of the men reach for something inside his coat.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  May 14th, 1984, 22:09

  Any feeling of exhilaration Will had as he began to untangle the web of mystery surrounding the murder of the shop owner, Frenz Belingi, the discovery of this unusual timepiece and the disappearance of Abigayle evaporated the moment the two figures appeared. He stood hopelessly still as the men closed in.

  With his heels together, arms firmly down by his sides, he clamped his eyes shut tight as the figure on the right fumbled around in his jacket pocket. Will didn’t move, fully expecting the impact of a bullet fired from the silenced pistol, which must have been pointing at him by now. When he’d stepped out of the shop, the men were only a few paces away from him. The elongated barrel of the gun would be close enough to reach out and touch, certainly. He waited another beat, but he didn’t feel the stinging impact of a bullet hitting his chest, didn’t hear that distinctive popping sound and the distant reverb he had heard earlier.

  He’d been standing completely still for well over ten seconds now. The sound of the approaching footsteps on the cobbled lane had stopped eight seconds earlier. His eyes were shut so tightly that the skin around them had turned pale, creasing into a dozen folds. He knew that he must have looked quite a sight at that moment.

  Thankfully, the next sound Will heard was not a bullet but a voice. ‘Erm, sir, is everything all right? Are you in any kind of pain? Would you like me to phone an ambulance?’ said the gravelly, vaguely Cockney-accented voice.

  Will slowly opened his eyes and focused on the two men standing in front of him. He sensed that the voice had come from the one on the left. He looked to be in his late fifties or early sixties, with a full head of grey hair and a grey moustache. He was wearing a black blazer with decorated epaulettes and breast pockets with silver buttons over a white shirt and a neat black tie. He was holding a pointed hat under his arm. The man on the right was younger, not much beyond forty, with short mousey-brown hair. He was wearing a long tan raincoat with a notch lapel over a white shirt with a loosely knotted brown and yellow tie and faintly pinstriped brown trousers. He didn’t have a hat under his arm; instead, his arm was outstretched towards Will, holding an identity badge, with a silver eight-pointed star, bound in a leather wallet.

  No silenced pistol in sight.

  ‘He doesn’t need an ambulance, Mapson. He’s just not overly fond of the police,’ said the man with the ID. He had an even, stern tone. He placed the ID back in his jacket pocket and continued, ‘I’m Detective Inspector Moss. This is Sergeant Mapson. We need to ask you some questions.’

  The police had caught up with Will sooner than he’d thought. As he mentally adjusted to this new turn of events, the realisation that he was currently in the process of fleeing from a crime scene – for the second time in almost as many hours – slowly dawned on him. He obviously wasn’t guilty of the first crime of murder, but he was very much guilty of theft. He was so wrapped up in his pursuit of answers that he hadn’t given a thought to the fact that he had broken into a shop – one that he knew had a dead body inside it – and raided its safe.

  There was also the not so insignificant matter of his fiancée being missing, a fact that was also likely to have been reported to the police by now. The jig was up.

  Will cleared his throat and his voice wavered as he said, ‘So, um, you’re cops?’ He felt the blood rush to his face as soon as he spoke, his tongue swollen as the words toppled out of his mouth.

  ‘We’re police officers, yes. And you’re an American, is that right?’ said Moss.

  ‘Yes, sir, that I am.’

  ‘What brings you to London?’

  ‘My girlfriend lived here. Erm, that is, I mean, she lives here. And I live with her. At her flat.’ Will really needed to regain some composure, immediately cursing himself for bringing Abigayle up in the conversation.

  ‘Name?’ Moss said.

  ‘Who? Me?’

  ‘Yes. What is your name?’ Moss said, beginning to grow irritated. Or suspicious, Will couldn’t tell which.

  ‘William Wells.’

  DI Moss wrote Will’s name down in his notepad and without looking up said, ‘Okay, Mr. Wells, would you care to tell us what you’re doing here at this time of night?’

  ‘Here? Walking down this alley?’

  ‘The shop,’ said the one called Mapson, pointing towards Frenz Belingi’s shop, ‘the one we just saw you come out of. A silent alarm was triggered a little while ago. Seems as though someone was trying to open the safe and used the wrong combination.’ Inspector Moss shot Mapson a glare so cold, a shiver ran along Will’s spine. Mapson had clearly offered up a little too much information.

  ‘Mapson, would you mind securing the scene, please?’ Moss said.

  ‘Of course. Sorry, Inspector,’ Mapson said with hangdog meekness as he shuffled away.

  Moss continued, ‘As Sergeant Mapson explained in all too much detail, I’m afraid that the safe here has an anti-tamper system installed. It’s usually used for banks. Overkill for a place like this, if you ask me, but some people value their security. We phoned the shop to check that it wasn’t triggered by mistake but there was no answer. So here we are. Our question for you, Mr. Wells, is what exactly are you doing here?’

  The short spat between the officers had given Will a moment to collect his thoughts and try to calm down. He looked Moss in the face, then Mapson, who was standing sentry outside the shop, and back to Moss. ‘Ah, that. Well, officers, I’m just a customer. I was here earlier today.’

  ‘All right, but what are you doing here now?’

  ‘Right, right. Well, the owner sold me a watch. He told me that if I wasn’t completely satisfied, I could bring it back for a rebate. Or a refund, I guess you guys would say.’

  ‘Did it not occur to you that it was a little late for the shop to be open?’

  ‘We
ll yeah, but the owner said to come by any time.’ Will cursed himself once more. Why couldn’t he just avoid mentioning people that were either dead or missing when talking to the police?

  ‘Oh? So, he’s here then?’ Moss asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The owner. Is the owner in his shop?’

  ‘Um, it’s hard to say.’

  ‘What does that mean exactly?’

  ‘Well, the store is unlocked, but it’s pretty dark inside. I called out to the owner, but I didn’t get an answer. So, I left. That’s when I bumped into you guys.’

  Moss considered this information for a moment, glancing at Mapson briefly before turning back to address Will. ‘If you don’t mind my saying so, sir, there’s something about your behaviour that strikes me as a little odd. Even for a Yank.’ Moss held his hands up in mock apology. ‘But it’s in my nature to be suspicious. Part of the job, I suppose. So, to satisfy my curiosity, why don’t we go have a little look inside and get to the bottom of all this?’

  ‘Don’t you guys need a warrant for that or something?’

  ‘No, no need for that. After all, the shop is open for business. Isn’t that right, Mr. Wells?’

  Will gulped audibly. ‘You know what, on second thoughts I might just keep the watch after all, so I’ll just get out of your hair.’

  ‘Not so fast, sunshine, you’re not going anywhere. Come on, inside. Mapson, don’t let the Yank out of your sight.’

  Mapson nodded. ‘Very good, sir.’

  Inspector Moss slid his pen neatly inside his notepad, straightened the elasticated fabric strap precisely and returned the bundle to his jacket pocket. ‘After you, Mr. Wells,’ he said.

  Mapson took Will by the upper arm and led him into the shop, with Moss close behind. This was now the third time Will had been into the shop and the fifth time up and down the steps just beyond the entrance. It had all become eerily familiar. He felt as though he knew intimately how each step creaked and their distinctive refrain, each one singing under the weight of the three men as they descended. He was well acquainted with the feel of the bare wooden banister as he ran the tips of his fingers along its smooth, weathered surface.

  When they reached the bottom, Moss and Mapson both retrieved torches from their belts, switched them on and swept their beams over the scene. Moss looked across the ransacked shop interior, turning back to Will and saying, ‘What the hell happened in here?’

  ‘I don’t know. Really. It wasn’t like this when I was here earlier today. I mean, it was messy but not this messy.’

  ‘Strange that you didn’t think to mention this when we were outside.’

  ‘I know how this all looks, but I had nothing to do with this.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. Won’t we?’

  ‘Whoever it was, they certainly did a number on this place,’ Mapson added.

  ‘Mapson, you and the Yank wait here. I’m going to go check on the owner,’ said Moss. He walked precariously towards the back of the shop.

  He soon came across the motionless form of the shop owner, Frenz Belingi, and called out, ‘Sir, can you hear me? Is everything okay? We’re police officers. Your alarm system sent us an alert earlier and…’ His words trailed off as he got close enough to understand that he wasn’t talking to a sleeping or drunk man; he was talking to a dead man.

  Moss pivoted, shot Will a penetrating look and said, ‘Mapson, please place Mr. Wells under arrest. I’m calling it in. This is a now murder scene.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  May 14th, 1984, 22:31

  At DI Moss’s request, Will had been handcuffed by Mapson – who did so almost apologetically – and held in one of the side rooms of the shop until backup arrived to secure the scene.

  Within ten minutes of DI Moss making the call, six marked police cars had arrived. Twenty minutes after that a boxy unmarked van from the coroner’s office and another from the forensics department rolled through the police barricade and a half-dozen men in white suits began collecting evidence.

  From across the room, Moss gave Mapson a firm nod, at which point Mapson took Will by the arm and led him through the shop door. Outside, the lane was awash with flashing blue lights from the police cars at either end. Will could see his tall, distorted shadow performing a frenzied dance across the buildings around him as the lights pulsed. The scene was raucous with the sounds of boots on the cobbled street and hurried voices. Mapson led Will out towards the main street, where they ducked under a strip of blue-and-white tape, which was lifted by a uniformed sentry as they passed.

  As he angled his head to step under the tape, Will caught a glimpse of a familiar sight out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head for a closer look as he was taken across the narrow footpath and, sure enough, parked on the other side of the street was a metallic-brown Rolls-Royce. He couldn’t tell if the figure was still sitting in the back of the car, but he could see the driver, motionless, with both hands on the wheel. Flat cap tipped low, the amber streetlights casting a shadow over his eyes. A cigarette hung loosely in his lips. As he took a drag, the glowing tip momentarily illuminated his face and Will could see that the driver’s eyes were firmly locked on him.

  A large crowd had also gathered at the scene and Will could feel their disapproving eyes on him and could hear murmurs of speculation and disgust. The crowd had taken one look at him in handcuffs and their judgement was instant: guilty. To them he was a thug, a thief or a rapist.

  Or a murderer.

  By the time Will was lowered into the back of a waiting police car, he was glad to be out of sight. Sergeant Mapson closed the door behind him, skirted around the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. When the door slammed shut, the silence inside the car was deafening. Will sat in the back of the police car for a few minutes, with the crowd still fixated and looking in through the glass at him. He felt like an attraction at a zoo or a freak show.

  Mapson had been instructed to wait for DI Moss, who apparently had insisted on booking Will in at the station personally. Moss obviously thought that he had his man and wanted to ensure that everything was handled by the book. Mapson sat quietly in the front while they waited.

  ‘Hey, Sergeant?’

  ‘Probably best you don’t talk, son,’ Mapson said without looking back.

  ‘Look, I had nothing to do with this. I know it looks bad, but that guy was dead when I got there. All I wanted to do was return the watch I bought.’

  ‘Trust me, this isn’t going to help you.’

  Will leaned forwards and spoke through the wire-mesh partition. ‘You seem like a decent enough guy and I know you know I didn’t do this.’

  ‘Oh yeah? What makes you think that?’

  ‘I don’t know, gut instinct? I’m pretty sure that’s how cops solve most crimes back in the States.’

  ‘Is that a fact? Look, son, I don’t get paid to think – especially with my gut – and I don’t get paid to talk. I get paid to do what I’m told. And right now, that’s placing you under arrest and waiting for the inspector.’

  ‘I can prove my story,’ Will said.

  ‘I have a duty to report everything you say to me, understand? So, take my advice and stop talking until you’ve got a solicitor present.’

  ‘I have a receipt,’ Will said, ignoring the advice. ‘And the owner, I think he made out an invoice. It’ll have the date and time and…’ Will was cut off when the front passenger door suddenly swung open. Will hadn’t noticed Moss striding out of the alleyway, lifting the tape above his head smoothly, without breaking stride, and climbing into the car. He got comfortable in his seat and raised a hand towards Mapson, who started the engine and pulled away. Bystanders leered into the car as they passed through the crowd.

  The three of them sat in silence throughout the drive to the police station, Will with his head hanging low. Every bump and pothole caused his head to bob up and down as if he was nodding to some unasked questions.

  Well, this is it. It’s all over. I’m sorry,
Abby, some rescuer I turned out to be.

  He’d become so wrapped up in the excitement of decoding Frenz Belingi’s mysterious messages that he’d been sloppy and gotten himself arrested. He had failed Abigayle, and he was ashamed of himself for not doing better by her.

  * * *

  It was a short drive to the police station, which was an old Gothic-style building, traditional red brick with large white stone blocks at the corners and surrounding the windows. It had a large mansard roof with moss-covered dark green tiles. At the centre of the building was a tall arched entrance that spanned both the ground and first floors. At the base of the arch was a set of finely carved double doors and above them a selection of ornate sculptures either side of the crest of the Metropolitan Police Department. The sight of the ancient crest made Will think of the thin faded-blue paper with the crude drawing in his jacket pocket.

  Sergeant Mapson drove the car past the front entrance of the building, down a side road and pulled up to a set of large metal gates flanked by high brick walls. This was the back entrance, away from the prying eyes of the main road.

  They were met at the kerb by an additional officer, who opened Will’s door and roughly manhandled him out. Moss rose smoothly from the car, spun on his heels and closed the door all in one movement. Mapson stayed in the driver’s seat and pulled away, presumably to park the car and to return to his duties.

  The rear of the building was a mix of new and old construction. The eastern wing had been extended or repaired at some point in its recent history. The architecture was far more modern than the rest of the building, built with dull grey concrete panels throughout. It contrasted horribly with the original building. Although not as impressive as the grand front entrance, the rear side still had a lavish, wide doorway with moulded Gothic features. Will could also see that it had a basement level, with small square windows just above street level, each with sturdy metal bars fixed in them.