Mystery City

by Alistair Lavers

  What Boldwood could not know was how brief his life expectancy now was, if the transformations were not arrested. His heart muscle would rupture and fail catastrophically within the span of five years, unless a ruptured spleen or an intracranial haemorrhage struck him down first.

  Such is the power of the change, it completely transforms the skeleton and soft tissues in under a minute. In reverse, the process is much slower to return the animal to its human form – taking up to ten minutes –while the emerging human suffers severe neurological pain and nausea, sometimes lasting several hours. The physiology of carriers also dictates their form as the wolf, producing either pure or mixed mesomorphic, ectomorphic or endomorphic forms. Constipation in the host will also affect the final size of the animal, often increasing its size by up to a third. Boldwood was the largest werewolf in the history of mankind.

  Inside Clash City Records, on the edge of Whitborough town centre, Brian Drake had just agreed to gulp down another mug of black coffee from Corfe’s Café, to take his mind off the pickle he was in. With a fortune in stolen gold at the zoo, fifty courses of anabolic steroids and Dianabol, under the dog’s bed behind the counter, and the possibility of fifty impatient doormen beating a path to his shop on the busiest day of the year, he was feeling distinctly uneasy. These problems would have been more than enough for one caffeine addict to cope with, but Brian was also the brains behind the biggest multiple terrorist attack in mainland Britain and had just been informed by his one-legged South African shop assistant that he didn’t have enough Twisted Sister t-shirts to last the weekend.

  ‘Michael? Go an’ get us a toasted teacake from that mad Irish bitch down the passage will you. Make sure she doesn’t put half a tub of Lurpak on it. I need to live at least until the end of the week. When I’ve scoffed I’m gonna nip out to the library.’

  ‘The library? But it’s full of books Brian.’

  ‘Well I hope they’ve got one about rhinos, or I’ll have to nick one from Smith’s.’

  Chapter Four

  The Carr Wold Parkway Incident

  It was late on Saturday afternoon when the media descended on Whitborough in force. The terrible events of Good Friday had occurred too late in the day to make the Saturday papers, but the editors of the nationals were determined to run an in-depth post mortem of the Bank Holiday mayhem, with the full involvement of all their departments in their Sunday editions and despatched their reporters to scour the town for witnesses, instructing them to find themselves a room in a hotel, or bed and breakfast. By Saturday teatime there was no accommodation left in the whole of the borough and desperate hacks were driving to Filey and Whitby or into the villages of Hunmanby, Cayton and Aveyou Nympton, in an attempt to find a room for the night.

  Every television channel and radio show was running their own story of the sinking of HMS Brazen and the terrorist attacks at Carr Wold Parkway and Wyndell Bank railway tunnel, as well as the events before and after the attacks, including the bomb scare and the amateur film of a brawl between the Navy and the Milk Race Cycle team, which the news team production staff at Look North had been salivating over. Both the BBC and ITV had decided to present the events in a way which was going to be very unflattering to the authorities and the government. The ministers and civil servants who could be found were recalled to Whitehall, and Parliament held a bad-tempered emergency session, in which many new faces from the back offices of state were thrust into the limelight, to take the place of their superiors who had left the country for the duration.

  Michael Foot – the Leader of the opposition – led the attack on a Government front bench that resembled a staff room of sulking teachers who had only just discovered their summer holiday had been cancelled. After the Prime Minister’s statement, the Right Honourable member for Ebbw Vale repositioned his heavy black-framed spectacles for the umpteenth time and then rose to address the house.

  ‘After the immensely popular public display of solidarity on Friday at Greenham Common, against the very real threat of nuclear war, the news of the expulsion of three KGB agents added to the catastrophic failure of the authorities to prevent a terrorist attack, the like of which we have never experienced in northern England and that has no equal in the history of the United Kingdom. Will the Prime Minister admit that her government is unable to adequately protect its own citizens and is losing control of events?’ belched Foot, his white hair swinging dangerously over his notes.

  The Prime Minister, Mrs Thatcher, responded by insisting that her government were the only administration that was capable of responding to the cowardly attacks from enemies both foreign and domestic and the leader of the opposition was more likely to be found holding hands with the likes of CND and appeasing insurrectionists than meeting the very real threat of terrorism when it raised its bloodstained hands. She was roundly cheered when she added that it was the Labour Party that had wanted to abandon the population of the Falkland Islands when faced with the invasion by the army of a fascist dictatorship just last year. It was not a debate that was characterised by any good feelings on either side.

  In its early evening bulletin after Grandstand– and before The Dukes of Hazzard – the BBC reported that the Labour leader had landed a body blow to the Government during the emergency recall debate in the House of Commons earlier that afternoon, but he had failed to offer up any credible response himself. The MP for Whitborough, Sir George Shawcross MBE, gave a short speech paying tribute to the emergency services and the crew of HMS Brazen and pledging his support for the Prime Minister, sitting down to wide applause and the sympathy of his fellow backbenchers.

  ITN’s early evening news programme was postponed, and substituted for an old episode of Chips. After an announcement promising an extended News at Ten, BBC2 appealed for calm and national unity by continuing its coverage of the Embassy World Snooker semi-finals at the Crucible in Sheffield. Channel 4 showed Merseyside’s idea of domestic bliss by running an extended Brookside, while its programmers argued about what to do in response to the other three channels’ coverage of events, as they were unable to assemble enough senior members of the board. In the absence of the Chairman, Chief Executive and Head of Programming, the other board members chose to continue with their original schedule; the documentary on the predatory behaviour of great white sharks, followed by Prisoner, Cell Block H.

  The concourse at Carr Wold Parkway had not welcomed so many reporters and cameramen since Cliff Richard’s visit to promote his starring role in the classic film Summer Holiday in the early 1960s. Every national and regional broadcaster and newspaper team had despatched a team to report on the attacks and the aftermath and record the response of the authorities. A scrum had developed in front of the portable stage and lectern that had been assembled hastily an hour before, in expectation of an announcement that was not yet forthcoming, though the throng of broadcasters and scribes were confident that must surely come in time for the BBC and ITN to file their reports for the main evening news programmes, at 9pm and 10pm respectively.

  Superintendent Ascoyne d’Ascoyne – the most senior police officer in the borough, floated serenely over the concrete pedestrian crossing pontoon, at the Parkway’s front entrance at 2pm in his chauffeur-driven Rover 3500SE SD1, wearing his best dress uniform for the benefit of the television crews. A brown leather document wallet, containing the text of a press release, faxed over from headquarters in Northallerton, rested on his lap. His driver steered the huge saloon into a coned-off area beyond the division’s recovery truck to screen them from prying eyes. They were quickly surrounded by a throng of uniformed officers and two motorcycle patrolmen.

  ‘Give me some space please,’ demanded their commander, after smoothing down the front of his uniform.‘I’m here to make a short statement,’ he announced, attempting to instruct his troops from the back seat of his car, ‘then I’ll be leaving immediately afterwards to meet the Chief Constable at Northallerton and s
ome gentlemen from the Security Service in London. Where’s Inspector Marshall?’ he asked, addressing the nearest torso which was resting disrespectfully against the side of his car.

  ‘What’s that sir?’ said one of the patrolmen, ducking down to the level of the window.

  ‘Where’s Marshall?’

  ‘He’s with forensics sir, in the pampas grass.’

  ‘Right – stand back– I’m getting out!’

  ‘Inspector Marshall and DS Broadhead are walking around the outside edge of the perimeter, with the dog team and forensics sir,’added Sergeant Moyne, avoiding the swing of the Rover’s passenger door and feigning a curtsy, while the superintendent extracted himself from the back seat of his car, with as much dignity as the dimensions of the rear door aperture allowed.

  ‘Has anyone spoken to those reporters?’enquired d’Ascoyne, once he had gained enough space to make his address and secure the attention of his officers.

  ‘No sir,’ came the collective reply.

  ‘Sergeant Moyne?’

  ‘Yes sir?’

  ‘Be good enough to inform the ladies and gentlemen of the press that I will be making a statement within the next few minutes. But, I will not be taking any questions at this time. You may also inform them that the Chief Constable is appearing live on Look North tomorrow evening, for a twenty-minute question and answer session with their main anchorman. After that, all local newspapers, radio stations and regional television news organisations will receive a press release from Northallerton. No one will be making individual statements. That’s all.’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Moyne?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Before you address anyone, straighten your tie and collar and sort your tunic out, you’re representing my station. I’ll not allow my staff to be mocked because some of you look like you’ve slept in your uniforms.’

  ‘As you wish sir,’ he said impudently.

  ‘It’s not a wish – it’s an instruction,’ replied his superior acidly.

  ‘Straight away sir!’ replied the sergeant, making a deliberate show of himself, with a clumsy lunge through the two packed ranks of his peers on his way to the Parkway’s toilet block, where he hoped to find a mirror in which to adjust the line of his uniform.

  Meanwhile, in the shelter of a clump of tall grasses, Inspector Marshall and Detective Sergeant Broadhead were bending over a member of the police forensics team, who was carefully removing evidence from a small patch of flattened grass with some tweezers, tapping the sample gently into a clear plastic evidence bag.

  ‘So what have we got Eric?’

  ‘Well, this is where your terrorist was, Ray,’ explained Eric Walker, the head of the forensics team. The grass is flattened here, where our man lay down and got into position. We’ve even got the bipod indentation marks from the machine gun further up, here… and here,’ he added, pointing to two small pits around three feet beyond the patch of flat grass.

  ‘Do you see these unusual dents in the turf inside the flattened patch of grass?’ he asked, indicating a cluster of sharp indents in the ground, using his biro as a pointer. ‘I was wondering what these might be. They’re quite well-defined. Then I recalled the gunman was reported as having escaped on a motorcycle. I think these marks are the imprint of zip tags, from a motorbike jacket.’

  ‘Mmm. That confirms the witness reports from the motorcycle showroom staff and the waitress in the Four Horsemen. Is that burnt cardboard?’ asked Marshall, focusing on some fire-blackened scraps of ash beyond the crushed turf.

  ‘Well, at first glance it does look like burnt cardboard. I’ve got a sample for analysis, just in case it’s connected to our shooter. There’s some crisp shards too. Cheese ‘n’ onion.’

  ‘Cheese ‘n’ onion? How d’you know that!’ said Marshall, amazed and outraged in equal measure.

  ‘Here – smell this…’ replied Eric, offering Inspector Marshall a small shard of crispy potato.’

  ‘The bastard!’spat DS Broadhead.

  ‘Yes, he’s certainly one of those George,’ concurred Marshall.‘I hope this doesn’t get in the papers. They’ll have a bloody field day. Can you imagine the bloody headlines? The cheese and onion shootout…’

  ‘Moving off the subject of crisps, that empty miniature bottle on the far bank you found might give us something Ray,’ added Walker, ‘and it might give you a line of enquiry too. Having the price tag with the name of the off licence is a bit of luck. I’m sure you can find out where the shop is. Tor Wines and Spirits – could be from Devon or Cornwall.’

  ‘I’d put my money on Glastonbury,’ said Broadhead.

  ‘Leave some of those crisp crumbs for me would you Eric? Glastonbury! That’s Somerset isn’t it George?’ added Marshall, scratching his neck.

  ‘It could mean our man is one of those types that goes to those music festivals,’ suggested Broadhead, thinking aloud.‘When he isn’t trying to mow down people like us – obviously.’

  ‘Aren’t those things held in the summer?’asked the forensics officer.

  ‘That’s a point of view I hadn’t considered. Well done George,’ said Marshall thoughtfully. ‘A good cover for an IRA assassin. Or – we could have ourselves a terrorist who tows a caravan. There must be what, at least ten camping sites around here, within five miles… sorry Eric– what did you say?’

  ‘The Glastonbury Festival is in June, Inspector.’

  ‘Mr Walker’s right Ray. As for the camping sites…there’ll be at least ten sir,’replied Broadhead;‘a lot of them hippies and dropouts that go to these things have caravans and old buses too. Glastonbury town’s a hotbed of alternative culture all year round. Me and the wife had a couple of days there on the way to St. Ives. I’ve never seen so many hippies since I went to Reading to see Thin Lizzy.’

  ‘She one of your girlfriends was she?’asked Marshall, teasing his friend.

  ‘No, they’re a rock band guv.’ And the singer’s Irish, but don’t read anything into that.’

  ‘Oh! I stand corrected,’ replied Marshall, self-mockingly.

  ‘Well, I’ve got what I need now Ray,’said Walker, struggling to get himself off his knees. You and George are welcome to lick the plates.’

  ‘It’s a shame you only found three of those bloody cartridge cases Eric. Such a shame,’ said Marshall, looking Walker right in the eye before winking, then flicking his gaze at the ground.

  ‘Ah…,’ replied the forensics officer, understanding the implied request. ‘Well, it was good to see you and George again,’ added Eric, jovially, letting a single brass bullet jacket from the crime scene fall out of his evidence bag. ‘I suppose I’d better get back and get these booked in and sent out.’

  ‘Before you go, Eric – just a second… sorry. George?’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Get us a couple of teas from the moby’, he whispered,‘my mouth’s as dry as an Ethiopian football pitch.’

  ‘Sorry Eric – I just wanted to pick your brains.’

  ‘Oh very laconic.’

  ‘Promise I won’t pinch your tweezers.’

  ‘That’s all right – I unwrap a new pair for each case; as you well know.’

  ‘I wanted to ask you if it’s worth doing a spot test on the bullet holes,’ he said, nodding towards the crisp black skeletons of the Vauxhall Astra and the BMW patrol bike. Because the fires were quite intense, some of the tarmac melted under the car.’

  ‘There’s no possibility of me getting a trace metal sample from a spot test after a fire like that Ray. I can tell you that just by looking at them. So forget it. But we do have a shell case – or two,’ he added coyly.

  ‘Thank you for that.’

  ‘Just before we go down that road, I wanted to clarify something. I know this is already being talked up as the w
ork of some rabid new IRA faction. I’m not certain that’s the case – would you like me to elaborate?’

  ‘By all means do.’

  ‘Well, most of the weapons that reach the Irish Republic and the north are usually manufactured in Russia, Yugoslavia and China. This bullet was made in Germany, at least forty years ago. You can tell by the patina of the shell case and the stamp on the bottom, which is rather a giveaway. So, what we’re looking for is a World War Two machine gun. Although terrorists will use these things when they can find them, they’re quite rare now and it’s not going to complement the narrative which is about to be presented to the press by…’

  ‘Superintendent d’Ascoyne?’

  ‘A very self-confident man…’ noted Walker, without any warmth.

  ‘I appreciate the sentiment. Would you do me a favour Eric?’

  ‘I’ll consider it.’

  ‘I know you’re under a bit of pressure from on high, but I’d be very grateful if you could keep shtum, before the usual interval?’ At a mutually agreeable time? That might even be after our superiors have established the likely perpetrators, independently of what you think of course,’ said Marshall, not wanting to interrupt his superiors whilst they were intent on pursuing a fruitless line of enquiry.