by Rohan Gavin
Reaching the cramped office at the summit of the building, Darkus wasted no breath on small talk. Regardless of who was behind this, the first forty-eight hours of any missing persons investigation were the most critical; and this missing person was someone very close to their hearts. ‘We believe your client, one Humphrey Sturgess, is a person of interest in a kidnapping,’ Darkus began.
The pasty, middle-aged man with a comb-over and a cheap blue suit (who was the managing director and sole employee of Scene Stealers) made no attempt to evade the question.
‘Ah, I thought it was all a bit too good to be true,’ the man admitted. ‘When it came to regular acting jobs, Humphrey couldn’t get arrested – if you’ll excuse the pun.’
‘Excused,’ said Darkus.
‘For a leading man, Humph didn’t have that je ne sais quoi. And then there was the moustache.’ The agent frowned and shook his head. ‘Anyway, a few weeks ago I got a call from a production company I’d never heard of, called Clorr Entertainment. They said they were looking for someone to play a part in a reality show. The job involved pretending to be a client on an internet dating site. Humphrey had to play a Pole. His accent was OK and he could turn on the charm, for a price. He had to play along, go on a date with a female contestant, and the film crew would all be there in secret – behind mirrors, in vans, that kind of thing. Then he was meant to woo the woman in question, and take her on a trip to America.’
‘America?’ Tilly snapped.
‘Yes, America,’ the man repeated.
Darkus looked to his father in surprise, then returned his steely gaze to the agent. ‘Proceed.’
‘Well, the company offered to pay for the flights, room and board, even a mid-sized rental car with comprehensive insurance. Now I’d call that star treatment. All Humph had to do was make sure the contestant reached America in one piece. On top of the dough, they also promised him a big audition for the lead in a Hollywood movie, when he got there. As you can imagine, the whole thing was too good to turn down.’
Darkus cut in. ‘So I assume they were planning to fly to Los Angeles, California, home of the movie business?’
‘Exact-a-mundo. Funny thing was though – they were one-way flights, not returns.’ The agent shrugged, baffled.
The detectives looked at each other, more concerned than ever.
‘When were the flights booked for?’ demanded Knightley.
‘They would’ve departed from Heathrow yesterday afternoon,’ the man answered, re-combing his hair. ‘Around 3 p.m.’
Both Knightleys unconsciously checked their wristwatches in unison, calculating the relative time zones (British Summer Time vs Pacific Time), before looking up, equally perplexed.
‘That means they’ve already landed in the US,’ said Tilly, beating them to it.
‘We’ve lost them …’ Knightley groaned.
‘Not necessarily.’ Darkus drummed his fingers on the agent’s desk. ‘I need to see all correspondence between you and Clorr Entertainment. I want numbers, emails, anything you’ve got. I warn you this is now an official police matter, and your reputation in the entertainment industry – which I fear is not stellar – is currently at stake.’
‘I’ll work with you any way I can,’ replied the agent. ‘And by the way, would either of you two youngsters be interested in doing commercials? I love your look. Especially the tweed.’
CHAPTER 7
DUTY FREE
Events were moving rapidly and logic had to move at an equal pace. Darkus and Tilly had both been schooled in detective work by Knightley Senior: Darkus by reading his dad’s journals known as the Knowledge; Tilly with on-the-job training over the past several months. That schooling involved a variety of techniques, such as: always make a mental note of every person and/or object in a room, in case it becomes evidence; always sit at the back of any café, restaurant or place of business, in order to observe and cover all exits; always carry a magnifiying glass, a jeweller’s loupe, or a smartphone macro lens; and finally, and most significantly in this case – always carry your passport. Knightley Senior’s reasoning was that no matter where you are, you never know when immediate flight from the country, by plane, train or boat, might be necessary – or even vital – to a case. And besides, should some terrible accident (or worse) befall you, a passport is the most reliable and widely accepted form of identification. For this reason, both Darkus and Tilly were in possession of their passports, as was Knightley. Uncle Bill, on the other hand, couldn’t remember where his was.
‘Ah think it’s in mah ski jacket, but I dinnae remember where ah put that,’ he complained from the back seat of the cab, sandwiched between Darkus and Tilly. ‘In any case, ah’ve booked ye three on the next flight tae Los Angeles departing at fifteen hundred hours on Virgin Atlantic. Yer tickets an’ travel papers are all arranged an’ ye’ll be fast-tracked through security, nae questions asked. Ah’ll follaw ye as soon as we get some background on this Clorr Entertainment and the results of the CCTV investigation. So far all we have is this …’ Bill looked like he’d bitten down on a lemon as he held up a tablet PC displaying Heathrow airport surveillance footage, time-stamped the previous day.
On the screen, Bogna could be seen wandering dreamily through airport security, escorted by the moustachioed Humphrey Sturgess. Both were dressed like holidaymakers: Sturgess in baggy harem trousers and Bogna in shorts, T-shirt and a large sun hat.
‘Looks like she might have been under the influence,’ observed Darkus.
‘The influence of what though …?’ said Tilly.
‘Alcohol or possibly a sleep agent,’ he replied.
Bill blew out his cheeks. ‘If ah get mah hands on that chanty wrassler …’
Knightley nodded soberly from the driver’s seat. ‘Try to remain calm, Bill. Look after Bessie for me.’
Darkus looked confused, until he realised his dad was referring to the car.
The black cab pulled up behind a row of taxis at the drop off area outside Heathrow Airport’s Terminal 3. Darkus and Tilly stepped out with only a rucksack between them, and were immediately surrounded by travellers wheeling luggage and pushing heavy trolleys. Knightley handed the car keys to Uncle Bill who spontaneously grabbed his colleague in a crushing embrace.
‘Oh, Alan.’
‘We’ll find her,’ Knightley assured him. ‘You have my word.’
‘If anyone can, ye and Darkus can,’ Bill choked, then straightened up into a salute, fixing the homburg hat on to his head. He then pulled the two teenagers into his bulging midriff.
They said their goodbyes and Uncle Bill got behind the wheel of the cab, accidentally sounded the horn, activated the windscreen wipers, flicked on the orange For Hire sign, then screeched away from the kerb.
Darkus and Tilly followed Knightley as he strode through the automatic glass doors, then paused in front of the flashing departures board. Knightley’s ears seemed to lift and his eyes gazed off into the scatter of flight numbers. Darkus looked up at his father apprehensively.
‘You OK, Dad?’
‘I’m getting one of my feelings, Doc. The feeling that all is not right. Perhaps it’s part of the game …’
‘Maybe you shouldn’t look at the numbers for too long. You know what can happen …’ Darkus warned, remembering that his father could slip back into a narcoleptic trance given the slightest opportunity. Underwood’s hypnotic powers had left a lasting scar on his dad’s subconscious, but Darkus needed his father alert and responsive for this very personal and soon-to-be foreign investigation.
‘Alan?’ a female voice interrupted him. It was Miss Khan – Darkus and Tilly’s science teacher from Cranston School who now doubled as their technical adviser. She nodded respectfully, lowered her headscarf and flicked her jet-black ponytail over her shoulder. ‘I came as soon as I could.’
The Knightleys turned to Tilly, who shrugged. ‘I figured we’d need more than a few travel adapters on this job.’
‘Hello, Aaeesha,’ said K
nightley, using Miss Khan’s little known and even less used first name. ‘I haven’t seen you since the parents’ evening.’
Miss Khan nodded prudently. ‘I’m glad you were there. I hope things are improving at home,’ she said, looking from him to Darkus and back again.
‘Well, we’re here sharing some male bonding time, aren’t we, son? The only way we know how.’
‘You could say that,’ answered Darkus.
‘What’ve you got for us, Miss Khan?’ said Tilly, getting down to business.
Miss Khan led the trio to a seating area and surreptitiously reached in her handbag. First she took out a junior-sized electric shaver and handed it to Darkus.
‘Well, in fact I don’t require that just yet,’ Darkus admitted, self-consciously rubbing his hairless chin.
‘It’s no ordinary shaver,’ the science teacher explained. ‘It’s an EMP device. That’s an electromagnetic pulse, to you and I.’
Knightley turned to Tilly. ‘Translation please?’
‘It interferes with machines,’ began Tilly. ‘Blasts them with radio waves that incapacitate their circuitry and render them useless. It can stop a phone, a car, even an incoming missile. Obviously you shouldn’t attempt your first shave on the plane.’
‘I don’t intend to,’ answered Darkus.
‘Next,’ said Miss Khan, reaching deeper into her handbag and pulling out a compact hairdryer. Tilly’s eyes lit up. ‘It’s a perfectly adequate blow-dryer,’ Miss Khan went on. ‘But it also doubles as a blowtorch … This is the gas reservoir. If you press this selector button all the way, it will emit a fine gas flame that will melt steel, a doorlock, what have you.’
The Knightleys both glanced at Tilly’s hair, concerned.
‘I’d advise you not to do your hair on the plane either,’ said Darkus.
‘Funny,’ she responded, deadpan.
Knightley waited his turn, watching with anticipation.
‘And for the man who has everything …’ Miss Khan produced a small silver medallion on a chain, passing it to the elder detective.
‘Does it garrotte people?’ enquired Darkus.
‘No, it protects them,’ she replied. ‘It’s a Saint Christopher medal, the patron saint of travellers.’
‘I didn’t know you were religious,’ Knightley murmured. ‘Or superstitious?’
‘It belonged to my father,’ she answered. ‘Bring it back in one piece.’
Knightley examined the small silver disc, with the engraving around the edge: Saint Christopher Protect Us. ‘Thank you,’ he responded, carefully coiling the necklace around his fingers and sliding it into his top pocket.
‘Good luck, Alan.’ Miss Khan grabbed the two teens around the shoulders. ‘Same goes for you two. And don’t forget your assignments over the summer break.’ She returned to her default role of schoolteacher. ‘I’ll see you in September, safe and sound, with your coursework completed.’ She nodded to Knightley, as if indicating that he should take care of himself, and more importantly, his two young charges.
‘Will do,’ said Tilly, throwing a salute.
Darkus watched the science teacher raise her headscarf and walk away in the direction of the train platforms. ‘What about Mum?’ he questioned his dad.
‘Hmm,’ said Knightley, absently tapping his nose.
Darkus was no stranger to body language and deduced exactly what his father was thinking: Mum’s the word.
‘Well?’ Darkus asked anyway.
His father stared at the departures board, losing himself in the flashing numbers again. ‘If we’re playing a game with the Combination, which I am quite certain we are –’
‘Though we don’t have conclusive evidence of that yet,’ Darkus interjected.
‘For once, Doc, I’d ask you to trust my judgement. If the Combination is the orchestrator of this peculiar problem we face, it is essential that we compartmentalise your mother, and more importantly – given his fragile history – your stepfather, Clive. For their own safety.’
‘By compartmentalise you mean …?’
‘Maintain plausible deniability.’
‘In other words …?’
‘Don’t tell them a thing,’ instructed Knightley.
‘Why didn’t you just say that?’ said Tilly, doing a panoramic eye roll.
‘Don’t worry, Doc,’ his father assured him. ‘I’ll take full responsibility. Now, once we’ve checked in, we have an hour before we’re required to be at the gate. I for one feel the need for some retail therapy.’
Tilly’s face lit up. ‘Me too!’
‘Are you sure we can afford all this, Dad?’ asked Darkus as the trio emerged from three separate changing rooms, each outfitted in khaki-coloured cotton shirts and linen shorts, sporting a distinctly tropical flair.
The trip through security had been uneventful and Miss Khan’s gadgets had not set off any alarm bells. Now Knightley Senior seemed determined to enjoy himself.
‘Money’s for spending, Doc. And I haven’t seen the sun since long before my “episode”.’
‘Well, I don’t care if you can afford it or not,’ said Tilly. ‘I’m liking my style.’ She put on a pair of big sunglasses and struck a pose in the mirror.
The Knightleys adjusted their safari jackets and stared down at their exposed white legs.
‘Well, it’s not exactly our natural state …’ Knightley admitted, as they squinted, examining themselves in the mirror. ‘But I think we could pass for natives.’
‘California is a hot and arid climate, so obviously tweed is out of the question,’ observed Darkus. ‘However, with the use of a reasonable factor sunscreen, I believe we’ll blend in within a few days. British tourists are usually given away by their refusal to remove their vests or to wear sunscreen, hence their tendency to go bright red, creating what’s known as a “lobster tan”,’ he explained.
‘Good point, Doc,’ his father concurred.
Tilly looked at the pair of them and shook her head.
Knightley called over to the sales assistant, ‘We’ll take one complete outfit in every colour you’ve got. And don’t worry about wrapping them.’
After visiting an expensive luggage shop, the three travellers packed their new belongings into three carry-on wheelie bags and made the trek to the departure gate. Darkus remained mystified by his father’s unexpected fit of holiday spirit, but put it down to nerves regarding what might await them on the other side of the pond – American slang for the Atlantic Ocean. It was now approaching forty-eight hours with no contact from Bogna. Her behaviour in the surveillance footage was inexplicable, and her ultimate role in the mystery equally so.
The other problem weighing on his mind was: why America? To get them off their home turf? To dazzle them with freedom, justice and supersize fries? Or to lure them into a trap, five thousand miles from their natural habitat? One thing Darkus did know was that if Bogna was bait of some kind, then they were taking it: hook, line and sinker.
As they approached the gate, passing the row of hulking Boeings beyond the glass, Knightley had one last embarrassment in store for Darkus on British soil.
‘I wonder if you could help us,’ Knightley asked the uniformed woman in red behind the airline departure counter. ‘The kids have suffered a terrible shock, losing someone very close to them, and I wondered if it wouldn’t be too much trouble … to upgrade us. They’re taking it really hard,’ he added.
‘We don’t have any seats in Premium Economy,’ the woman in red responded, before breaking a smile. ‘But we do have three in Upper Class.’
‘Outstanding.’
CHAPTER 8
FLIGHT PLAN
The Knightleys and Tilly settled into their seats across from each other at the front of the plane, experimenting with the fold-down flat beds and the entertainment systems. Knightley Senior sipped a glass of champagne and fastened his seat belt tightly across his waist.
Darkus browsed a selection of movies, before switching off the screen i
n order to focus his mind on the facts: Bogna was missing, having fallen victim to a honeytrap, performed by a professional actor, and engineered by the mysterious Clorr Entertainment, who had conspired to spirit the unfortunate housekeeper to the United States. Darkus used the onboard wi-fi to conduct a brief enquiry of Clorr Entertainment, but all its employees had automatic out of office replies, its owners were untraceable, and its addresses, real and online, were currently ‘under construction’. All this while Underwood lay unconscious in a secure hospital ward. Darkus found the wheels of his deductive mind spinning hopelessly, lacking the connective tissue to gain traction. He turned to Tilly and found her staring at her phone, watching the timer counting down: 61:45:03 – 2 – 1 …
‘Any update?’ he asked.
‘A few fragments of emails. Nothing about who the Combination are, or where I can find them. Nothing more about the murder.’ The mention of her mother’s death brought a ghostly pall over Tilly’s face. ‘Nothing relevant. They’ll ping me when the drive is readable.’
‘If you want my assistance, I’m all ears.’
‘I’ll let you know when I’m ready to share,’ she said, toying with her sunglasses. ‘You know, your dad’s all right. Weird … but all right.’
The aircraft nudged back from the terminal gate and taxied across the byways towards its designated runway.
Knightley Senior shifted anxiously in his seat as the jet engines droned to life. He leaned across the aisle to the others. ‘I understand neither of you have travelled to the States before, so when we disembark in Los Angeles, meaning “City of Angels” – also known as LA for short – I’ll ask you, for once in your lives, to follow my lead. The thing about America is, everything’s bigger. The cars, the characters … especially the sandwiches. And I can’t promise they’ll be triangles and not squares. But we’ll survive. And we will find Bogna, mark my words.’