‘Blast that woman,’ Cillian said. ‘While half the agency is at that meaningless empty casket service for Ordell, now might be a good time for us go and speak to Agent Robertshaw.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, sir, there are –’
‘Are you questioning me, Agent Wigmore?’
‘No, of course not, sir. I’ll take you to him right away.’
Cillian picked up the malfunctioning Mimic Watch from his desk and pocketed it. Then he and Wigmore made their way to the derelict sub-basement level of Central Station. They used an old freight elevator with a vintage Otis scissor gate to descend the five floors. Once there they passed through several dimly lit, narrow concrete-walled passageways until they reached one that had two agents standing on either side of a closed door. Wigmore nodded to both agents, who stepped aside. He pulled a key from his pocket, unlocked the large metal door and pushed it open. Wigmore himself stepped aside and let Cillian enter the small room.
Sitting on the floor in one corner was a man with his knees held closely against his chest. His hands and feet were bound tightly with rope, his mouth was taped shut and a white cloth blindfold covered his eyes. Cillian turned and nodded to Wigmore, who closed the cell door. Cillian approached the bound man, knelt down and gently removed the cloth blindfold. Agent Robertshaw blinked frantically as his wild, bloodshot eyes adjusted to the bright light in the room. When he saw Cillian looming over him, he startled and shuffled farther back into the corner. He tried to talk, uttering something indecipherable through the tape that covered his mouth. Cillian raised his hands and said, ‘Could you please hold still and allow me to help? If you begin screaming and acting in a hysterical manner, the gag goes back on, understand?’
Agent Robertshaw calmed down but continued to stare at Cillian Gander in the same desperate manner. Cillian moved his hand slowly towards him and pulled the tape free in one rapid flick of his wrist. Agent Robertshaw gasped and then began performing a series of movements with his jaw to remove some of the stiffness and tension that had built up over the past two days. He coughed and spat a gob of old dark blood onto the floor. Cillian rose and stepped back. Agent Robertshaw took a moment to compose himself, then said, ‘Sorry about that, sir.’ He paused to exercise his jaw some more, moving it side to side. ‘One of the other agents slugged me when they brought me down here and I’ve been swallowing quite a lot of blood since then.’
‘Don’t apologise. It is me who should be apologising to you. This has all been a terrible misunderstanding, I’m sure.’
‘Sir, what’s going on? I did everything I was asked. What did I do wrong?’
Cillian slid his hand into his pocket, retrieving the damaged Mimic Watch. Its red ring of light continued to pulse slowly. ‘This is what went wrong, Agent Robertshaw. A malfunctioning Mimic Watch. An engineer was repairing it when you activated the Timepiece and now he’s gone astray.’
‘I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t know. How could I –’
‘You couldn’t have, Agent Robertshaw. You didn’t do anything wrong at all. But tell me, when you went into the future, what did you see? Agent Wigmore informs me that you didn’t receive a dossier from my future self to bring back with you?’
‘No, sir, I didn’t. I activated the Timepiece, stood exactly where I was supposed to. When I arrived at my destination time, you were right there, sir, just like they said you would be.’
‘And then what happened?’
‘Sir, you looked…’
‘Go on, it’s fine,’ Cillian said, ‘you’re not in any trouble.’
‘Well, you looked unsettled, sir. You looked like you hadn’t slept or shaved or washed for days. I asked you what was wrong. I asked where the dossier of information was because you had nothing with you.’
‘That sounds most unlike me, Agent Robertshaw. Are you certain it was me?’
‘It was you, sir, I’m sure.’
Cillian calmly walked back to the door of the cell. He turned to face Agent Robertshaw. Before he could direct more questions to him, his attention was caught by the ring of light on the damaged Mimic Match, which began to flash amber frantically before turning solid green. Cillian Gander looked up and to his surprise the sparse concrete room was no longer so. He was instead surrounded by racks of shelving units filled to the brim with cardboard boxes, each one itself filled with files and stacks of paper. He looked up to the art deco clock hanging on the wall to his right. The top half had a traditional analogue clock and the bottom half had a split-flap display showing the date. It read: September 5th, 1940.
Almost as soon as Cillian adjusted to his new surroundings, the room around him changed once more. The clock and the shelving units had vanished, and he found himself back where he started. An even more agitated Agent Robertshaw sat cowering in the corner of the room. When Cillian looked at him, Agent Robertshaw said, ‘Sir! What just happened? What’s going on here?’
Cillian ignored his questioning and instead knelt next to him, grabbing him by the shoulders. ‘What did I tell you? My future self, what did I say?’
Agent Robertshaw took a breath and his eyes darted between the floor and Cillian’s face. Eventually he said, ‘Sir, you told me that the Timepiece had been stolen. Almost two months earlier.’
Cillian stood once more, walked to the door and knocked. Wigmore immediately unlocked it, pulling it open. Agent Robertshaw shouted after him, his desperation evident: ‘Sir, you’re going to let me out of here, aren’t you?’
Cillian stopped, turned back to him and said, ‘Yes, I’m done with you. You can go.’ As soon as he spoke those words, Cillian pulled a gun from his jacket and fired a bullet through the middle of Agent Robertshaw’s forehead. The agent’s eyes rolled vacantly upwards and his head lolled back as he slumped into the corner. Cillian placed the gun back in its holster and said, ‘Dispose of this.’ The two agents who had been guarding the door moved into the room and got to work.
Cillian and Agent Wigmore made their way back to the elevator and ascended five floors. Wigmore pulled the scissor doors open and followed Cillian back to his office. The two of them arrived to find Agent Tyke already there, waiting.
‘Agent Tyke, what on earth do you think you’re doing in my office?’
Tyke looked rattled and mumbled his words as he spoke, ‘I…I, um, sir. Frenz Belingi, sir, I can’t find him. No one has seen him for most of the past two days.’
Cillian bellowed, ‘Well what are you doing loitering in my office? Go and find him!’
‘But, sir, he’s not the only thing missing. The Timepiece, we think he stole it. And a few moments ago, he activated it.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
May 16th, 1984, 08:48
Mapson had been anxious for a positive development in the case and the call he’d been waiting for came in just as he was beginning his morning shift. That’s not to say that he’d left the station in the past twenty-four hours; he’d spent the previous night working to undo the mess that his two tweed-clad friends had caused. Detective Inspector Moss was furious and Mapson wasn’t altogether sure that he’d bought his story about the car backfiring but delivering a good lead on the whereabouts of William Wells might help smooth things over with his boss.
He answered the phone on the first ring, his voice gravelly, tired: ‘Serious Crimes, Mapson speaking.’
He listened intently to the response, said thank you, then stood from his desk and hurried down to reception. There he was introduced to the subject of the call and the source of his newfound positivity: Mrs. Karlita Gesler.
Mrs. Gesler was a resident of Norland Square. She’d lived in one of the large townhouses there for almost thirty years. Her husband, who’d died over a decade earlier, was a relatively unsuccessful banker and had inherited the property from his parents. Upon his death, the property had passed into the sole possession of Mrs. Gesler. She’d never done a hard day’s work in her life and yet still managed to look down on almost everyone she encountered who had.
She did a d
eft job of crushing Mapson’s spirits in a matter of minutes. He’d led her to his desk, offered her a seat and a warm drink. She was dressed in a fine button-down navy silk dress with large pearls weighing down her earlobes and a matching set around her neck. Her head darted around the office as if the lack of cleanliness might reach out and bite her. She used the newspaper she carried under her arm to brush some debris off the chair before taking a seat. She glanced at Mapson’s nameplate on his desk, then said, ‘Sergeant Mapson, is it?’
‘Yes, madam, it is. Now, would you like to tell me why you’ve come in to speak to us this morning?’
‘This just won’t do. I wish to speak to someone with seniority. Whoever is running this operation, I’d like to speak to him.’
‘That’ll be DI Moss. I’m afraid he’s rather busy with the investigation at the moment.’
‘Well, I never! Here I am, an important witness, an upstanding member of the community, and they leave me with a lowly sergeant. And what about my own safety? I’m offering information on a homicidal maniac. Who’s to say I won’t be his next target?’
Mapson found her immediately unlikable. He offered his finest faux smile. ‘I assure you, madam, that I am an experienced officer. I also report directly to DI Moss. If I could just take your statement –’
‘Pfft, very well,’ she said, flinging a limp-wristed hand in Mapson’s general direction. ‘I’ve seen the man you’re looking for. That mass-murdering Yank, William Wells. His face is all over the papers.’
‘Mass-murdering?’
‘Yes! The newspaper’ – she waved her copy of the Daily Mail in the air – ‘says that he’s done this kind of thing before. Three other murders in the past two years, they say.’
‘Mrs. Gesler, I think it’s best that we refrain from that kind of unsubstantiated gossip. He’s not been convicted of anything yet. He’s just wanted in connection with a murder investigation. At the moment, that’s all.’
‘Nonsense. I knew he was a criminal sort the first time I saw him. And murder isn’t all he’s involved with. I caught the blighter breaking into our private garden multiple times with his girlfriend. And she’s missing now as well. So that’s five murders altogether!’
Mapson continued to smile politely. ‘Okay, why don’t you start by telling me where you saw William Wells and when.’
‘Just yesterday morning. I saw him and some other shady-looking character in our private garden – again! It’s my duty to know these things. You ruddy police officers don’t do a thing about it! I’m the chairwoman of the Norland Conservation Society, you know!’
‘Impressive,’ Mapson said dryly. ‘What time would you say this was?’
‘Around 6 a.m.’
‘You’re sure it was William Wells?’
‘Certain of it.’
‘And this other man, have you seen him before?’ Mapson said, now taking out a notepad and pen, scribbling frantically.
‘No, never.’
‘Did you see where they went?’
‘I most certainly did. As I said, it’s not the first time he’s done it and I’ve had enough of it. So, I hurried downstairs and followed them out onto the main road and saw them board a bus. The number 228, I believe it was.’
‘This is excellent information, Mrs. Gesler. Thank you. Although I must caution you from attempting to confront potentially violent criminals in future.’
Before she could offer a retort, the doors to the Serious Crimes office burst open and in came Detective Inspector Moss. He stormed past Mapson and Mrs. Gesler, who was giving the detective an ineffective come-hither glance. Mapson sprung up from his seat, eager to deliver good news for a change. ‘Sir, I have a lead on Wells, a solid one!’
Pausing to look at Mapson with mock surprise, Moss said simply, ‘Oh?’
‘Yes, sir. Mrs. Gesler here lives in Norland Square and she saw Mr. Wells boarding the number 228 bus at around 6 a.m. yesterday morning.’
‘Yesterday morning?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Mapson said again, barely able to contain his pride.
Moss walked across the room to Mapson, stopping at arm’s length. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two pieces of paper with perforated edges and held one in each hand, inches from Mapson’s face. ‘See these pictures?’
Mapson’s shoulders drooped and he nodded slowly, looking at the grainy black-and-white images. One showed William Wells sitting outside a café with an as yet unidentified man. He kept his face turned away from the cameras, but the two of them were deep in conversation. The other showed him passing through security and boarding the ferry to Dublin.
‘These,’ Moss said, ‘were just faxed over. They’re from yesterday afternoon. Do you recognise anyone?’
‘It looks like Mr. Wells, sir.’
‘Yes, it does, doesn’t it? This is him with another unknown male, boarding the Holyhead to Dublin ferry. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to make a phone call to the chief of the Dublin police.’ Moss turned his back on Mapson and continued walking towards his office.
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir,’ Mapson said.
Mrs. Gesler, who had been standing over Mapson’s shoulder, cleared her throat and said, ‘Detective Inspector?’
Moss stopped but didn’t turn around. ‘What is it?’
‘Those images,’ Mrs. Gesler said, ‘they don’t make sense.’
‘Madam, I really am very busy.’
‘It’s the timestamps on the pictures,’ she said.
‘What about them?’
‘If they’re correct, then we must be looking for two William Wells because the timestamp is almost the same on each image. How can he be in two places at once?’
Moss looked at the images again, then spun around with a kind of crazed grin on his face. ‘How indeed?’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
May 17th, 1984, 06:48
Will, Frenz and Avy had continued to speak throughout the day. By the time Avy had finished the account of her experience with Cillian Gander seventeen years prior, they had worked their way through four pots of tea, two packs of rich tea biscuits, a chicken and mushroom pie and a few slices of homemade apple amber. The sun had begun to set, casting near horizontal rays of light through the kitchen.
It was obvious to Will that Frenz and Avy had been close and, for Avy at least, they hadn’t spoken in years. There were still some things that went unsaid between them. Will had been fighting sleep since they’d arrived in Dingle, so after they’d eaten dinner together, he retired to bed to allow the two of them some time alone. Avy had offered him the sofa in the living room. By this point, Will could have slept anywhere. Before turning in for the night, Will had, with Frenz’s insistence and Avy’s reassurance, reluctantly agreed to hand the Timepiece over so that it could be inspected. It was, after all, one of the reasons they had made the journey to see Avy in the first place. He had felt his gut lurch horribly as he peeled the sturdy leather strap from his wrist and handed it over.
With the comforting warmth and weight of the Timepiece – his one true link to Abigayle – stripped from him, he had fallen into an uneasy sleep.
He awoke the following morning to the sound of seagulls. Sunlight was streaming in through the window. Sitting up, he shielded his eyes as his head passed through a bright band of light that shone across the back of the sofa. He arched his back and groaned, clutching at his ribs. They had taken the brunt of the impact when he and Frenz dove through the air while evading the two Timekeepers and now there was a dull ache when he breathed. That, or the painful longing in his heart to see Abigayle was manifesting itself physically. Either way, he hoped that nothing was broken. He rubbed his eyes, then rose from the sofa and staggered back towards the kitchen as if drunk. Will wasn’t a morning person.
He could hear a muffled voice through the frosted glass of the sliding doors that separated the kitchen from the living room. Stopping short of the doors, he felt the anxiety course through him. In the few days since Abigayle’s disap
pearance, Will had become more and more paranoid, wary of the slightest thing out of the ordinary. He pressed his ear against the glass to better hear the voice. It had neither Frenz’s Caribbean twang nor Avy’s light Austrian drawl.
Is there someone else in the room with them? he suddenly thought, breathing deeply, pushing the pain to the back of his mind.
He stepped sideways and peered in through a narrow crack in the door. He could see Avy sitting at the kitchen table in the same seat she’d sat in the night before. The table was covered in all manner of tools, oils and watch parts. She held the Timepiece in her hands, examining meticulously, polishing any blemishes with a dull blue rag. He could see Frenz standing behind her with his back turned and both hands placed flat on the kitchen counter.
Will shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the floorboard below him creaking loudly. Avy looked up and Frenz spun around, in response to the sound. When Frenz saw the silhouette of Will’s frame through the glass, he rolled his eyes, tipped his head to the side and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, William, why are you sneaking around like that?’
Will slid the glass door to the side, opening the narrow gap until it was wide enough for him to step through. As he walked into the kitchen, he could see the small portable television set on the kitchen countertop next to Frenz. ‘Shit, sorry. I heard a voice I didn’t recognise. I’m a little on edge’ – he gestured to the television – ‘I guess it was just the TV.’
‘Magnificent, isn’t it? The colours are spectacular!’ Frenz said.
‘Yeah, I guess.’
Will pulled up a chair opposite Avy and sat down. She nodded to him, lifted the tea cosy clear of the teapot and poured him a cup. She slid the cup towards Will, who smiled gratefully. He wrapped his cold hands around the cup to warm them, then said, ‘So, what did I miss last night?’
‘Oh, nothing important,’ Avy said. ‘Frenz and I were just catching up. Well, he was, at least.’
The Timepiece and the Girl Who Went Astray: A thrilling new time travel adventure Page 16