by Malcolm Rose
Yvonne opened up her palms and lifted her shoulders in a gesture of innocence. “Yes. That’s my big secret.”
“Thanks,” Luke replied. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he spotted Saskia returning to her coach’s side with reddening cheeks.
Chapter Nineteen
On his way out of the indoor arena, Luke heard three dull thuds coming from one of the games rooms. He halted in the passageway and listened. In the quiet, he could make out the clear sound of footsteps. After a brief pause, there was another thud. Curious, Luke pushed the door open and looked inside.
Ian Pritchard – the rat-catcher and vet – threw two more darts at the board and then, sensing someone behind him, turned round. “Ah,” he said, clearly embarrassed. “Caught red-handed. I’m checking the poison and collecting dead rats, but I couldn’t resist a sneaky game, could I? I love it, even playing solo.”
With a big grin, Luke wandered into the room. “Looks like you need a bit of competition.”
“You play, do you?”
Selecting a set of darts from the stand, Luke said, “I did. Before I took up chasing crooks.”
Ian still seemed compelled to make an excuse for taking a break. He pointed towards his holdall in the corner. “I want you to know I bagged up all the rats before I started playing.”
“As long as you didn’t try picking them off with darts. But I’d be impressed if you could.” Luke stepped up to the oche and made himself comfortable, fixing the treble twenty with his eye. His first dart didn’t hit it, but went very close. The next two darts followed the first, ending up in a tight line just under the wire.
“Nice grouping,” Ian commented.
“Two more warm-up throws, then closest to the middle for five-nought-one?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Ian hesitated before adding, “You’ve had a good doctor working on your cheek. Nice repair. What happened?”
Luke was more interested in the game than talking through his scars yet again. Settling in and finding the target, he scored eighty-five. “Just a cut or two when a tree fell on Hounslow Residential.” Then he focused on double sixteen. Missed it twice and hit it once.
Ian watched Luke’s throw closely and said, “Now you’re scaring me.” He looked around, searching for something. “How are we going to keep score? No computer.”
“Yes, there is,” Luke replied. “Do you know darts, Malc?”
“It is an indoor game with its origins in archery. Small arrow-like shafts are thrown at a segmented circular board and score points according to where they land on the target. There are...”
“All right. You’ve convinced us. You’re referee and scorekeeper.”
The game took Luke back to his schooldays when he’d run onto a pitch and head a football, take a kick, catch a ball, and instantly became part of a match. Now he was an FI, he missed that spontaneous fun. This crazy game of darts was the nearest he came to making up for it. But it wasn’t as carefree as it looked. After he won the first game on double eight, he said to Ian, “Have any athletes ever asked you to extract growth hormone from dead animals? Another game, by the way?”
“Sure. I want to get my own back.” Ian took his throw and muttered, “Sixty.” Then, before his opponent settled himself at the oche, he added, “Growth hormone? Yes. It was a while ago. I remember someone – a man – asking me if I could get some from a dead pig.”
Luke scored a hundred. “What did you do about it?”
“Nothing. Well, I didn’t have a dead pig for one thing. Second, I didn’t know why anyone would want growth hormone from a pig. Maybe a farmer trying to fatten up his stock.” After his throw, he thrust a fist into the air, “One hundred and twenty-one.”
“Good shot.” Luke steadied himself. His body remained absolutely still. Only his right arm from the elbow to his fingertips moved when he threw a dart. The control over each flight came from the flick of his wrist.
Malc announced, “One hundred and forty.”
“Did you realize what was going on?” Luke asked.
“Eventually. He wasn’t a farmer. A weight-lifter, I think. He was into power sports anyway. I didn’t think a hormone from a pig – or anywhere else – would do him any good. For one thing, it could contain animal viruses, couldn’t it? So I said no. That’s the last I heard of it.” He took his turn and scored forty-five.
“Sorry,” said Luke. “That’s me putting you off.” He glanced again at Ian’s holdall. It was zipped up so he couldn’t see any polythene bags with their gruesome remains. “Just one more thing. What do you do with dead animals? Like the rats.”
Ian smiled. “You might not believe it but I do pretty much what we do with dead people. I’ve got a crematorium, haven’t I? A pet crematorium and a garden to scatter or bury the ashes.”
“Oh. I never knew that,” Luke replied as he lined up his next throw.
“One hundred,” Malc stated. “One hundred and sixty-one remaining.”
“Are you sure your mobile’s not directing your darts?” Ian muttered with a pained grin.
“People tell me I’m good at aiming things, that’s all.”
“You’re quite young. You should be playing in these youth games coming up in spring, shouldn’t you?”
“If only I had the time to put in the training,” said Luke. “But I don’t.”
“Training! I wouldn’t want to play you once you’re trained up. You’re relentless already!”
Luke won 3-0, thanked Ian for the match, and left in a good mood.
****
Part of the Hounslow plan was an innovative scheme for carrying aircraft passengers the short distance from the airport to the centre of the development. The builders were making a moving and covered walkway, like a conveyor belt for people and their luggage. Luke found Neil Gladwin near the stadium, talking to a steward about laying the foundations for the station at the end of the auto-carrier. Next to them, a digger idled until they’d made the necessary decisions.
Spotting Luke, Neil said to the steward, “Excuse me a second.” Turning towards the FI, he asked anxiously, “Any news?”
Luke drew him to one side, out of the hearing of the waiting workforce. “I just wondered if you’ve got athlete’s foot.”
The site manager looked puzzled. “What?”
“Have you got athlete’s foot?”
“What is it? Something you get by running too much? You won’t find me pounding the track!”
Malc had already informed Luke that none of suspects’ medical records mentioned the minor infection so Luke was going to have to check them one-by-one. “No,” he explained, “It’s a fungus. Not a big deal. It makes the toes itchy and blistered.” As soon as he said it, Luke’s mind went back to something he’d noticed last Thursday but he tried not to let it distract him now.
Neil shook his head. “Not something I’ve come across.”
Knowing that Neil could be lying, Luke said, “Are you sure? Remember, I can ask you to take your shoes and socks off and take a look right now.”
Neil shrugged. “Feel free. I don’t have anything to hide.”
“You’re in luck, then,” Luke told him and walked away.
Neil called after him, “What was that about?”
Over his shoulder, Luke said, “I’ll let you know.”
If Gladwin was telling the truth, it meant that someone else had used his work shoes, just as he’d claimed. But that didn’t prove the site manager was innocent. It told Luke only that there was another suspect: an unknown person with itchy feet.
It was standard practice for a forensic investigator to hide conclusions from suspects unless there was a very good reason to open up. As Luke strode towards the Hounslow cab terminus, he said to Malc, “I want to keep Neil in the dark.”
Luke’s mobile replied, “That would be classified as torture.”
In exasperation, Luke closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath.
“As an FI supported by my analyses,” Malc said, “y
ou are qualified to look for traces of anti-fungal treatments. You are not qualified to identify a medical condition by examining suspects’ feet. Only a doctor’s diagnosis would be admissible in law.”
“It’s not like brain surgery, is it?”
“No. You are not qualified for either.”
Luke laughed. “Let’s just concentrate on the case. Sounds like I’ve got to ask for a medical examination of all suspects’ feet.”
“I would support such a request to The Authorities.”
“Okay. Go ahead. Let loose the chiropodists.”
“Transmitting request.”
“I want them to check out Brooke Adams as well.”
“Confirmed. However, she is a victim, not a suspect.”
Luke nodded. He knew that the swimmer made an improbable suspect because she’d taken a terrible punishment at the hands of Spoilsport, but her injuries might have been intended to divert the suspicions of an investigator. “If you replay Thursday’s interview with her, you’ll see she rubbed her toes a lot.”
“Exposure to herbicides causes irritation,” Malc told him.
“I know, but even so... Maybe she knew what she was diving into and went in just for a few seconds to hurt herself enough to put me off.”
Malc replied, “She has no known motive and her accident happened before your arrival. Therefore she cannot be responsible for the attempt on your life.”
“Maybe she made the conifer unstable earlier. Maybe it was an attack on the building. Hitting my room – my first one – might have been sheer fluke.”
“Speculation.”
“I know it’s unlikely,” Luke said. “So are asteroids hitting the planet, but they do. And there’s something else. When the agent takes Trevor Twigg’s sock samples to the lab, get them to check for the anti-fungal powder as well.”
“Transmitting.”
“I don’t suppose I’ve got a result from that soil by the syringe yet, have I?”
“You are correct. I have been informed that initial screening did not detect any relevant compounds. The samples are to be analysed by more advanced and lengthy methods. The result will be available in due course.”
“When?”
“A definite timescale cannot be set for the detailed procedure but it will not be completed today.”
At the terminus, Luke swept his identity card past the reader and gave the address of the Experimental Technology Institute where Libby Byrne’s partner worked. As he got into a cab, he said to Malc, “Don’t contact them to tell them I’m on my way. I want to surprise Royston Klein.”
Chapter Twenty
The surprise paid off. When Luke went unannounced into Royston’s workshop, the engineer froze for a moment. Taken aback, he tried to gather up and hide a sky-blue tracksuit from a workbench. Realizing that he couldn’t do it hurriedly, he gave up and pretended merely to move it casually as if it weren’t important.
Luke noticed his reaction but pretended that he hadn’t. “Sorry to burst in on you but something’s cropped up.”
His eyes widened. “Is it Libby?”
“No, sorry. I want to ask you about shoes. Running shoes and ordinary ones.”
Royston was still on edge but he seemed to think he’d avoided drawing Luke’s attention to the tracksuit. “What do you mean?”
Luke glanced down at Royston’s feet. “What size are yours?”
“Erm... Thirty centimetres. Why?”
“Do you get athlete’s foot?”
“In the past, yes.”
“Recently?” said Luke.
Royston was clearly perplexed, but he wasn’t panicking. “No. Ages ago, I was plagued with it. It’d go away but kept coming back. Now, I’ve got this stuff I put between my toes and it doesn’t... What’s this all about?”
“What stuff is that?”
Royston shrugged. “I don’t know what’s in it, but it works.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve got any with you.”
“No,” Royston answered. “I put it on every morning. At home.”
“Including today?”
“Without fail.”
“In that case, I’d like you to sit down and take your shoes and socks off. My mobile’s going to scan your feet and socks for the powder.”
Royston frowned. “I don’t know what you’re getting at, but it isn’t a powder. It’s a cream.”
Luke still wanted to pursue the idea. “Even so...” Luke nodded towards Royston’s shoes.
With a resigned sigh, Royston sat down and pulled off his shoes and black socks.
“Turn the socks inside out, please.”
When Luke saw the material, he got a sinking feeling because he could not see any white flecks on the black wool. He asked Malc to scan Royston’s socks and feet, then told Royston that he could put his shoes on again.
Luke looked around the workshop area, still ignoring the light blue vest. “Do you get involved with hi-tech running shoes?” he asked.
Pulling the Velcro tab over the top of his right foot to fasten the shoe, Royston replied, “Personally, no. The institute does.”
“I heard about this weird three-dimensional printing to make new shoes.”
“That’s right. We do it. It’s very specialized at the moment but one day all training shoes will be made like that. We call it laser sintering because that’s what we do to build up an exact shape from specks of plastic.”
“Do you supply athletes with these shoes?”
Royston stood up again. “I’m not sure. It’s not my area. But they’re a brand new technology so they won’t be in circulation much. Maybe a few prototype pairs are out there for testing. I think we’re concentrating on football boots first.”
Malc’s neutral voice pronounced, “The subject’s toes are smeared with chlorphenesin but there is no zinc oxide dust.”
“Thanks, Malc,” Luke replied. It was the negative result that Luke was expecting. Trying not to break his concentration, he walked over to Royston’s workbench. “You’re into haptic clothing, aren’t you?”
Royston began to look uneasy again. “You know that.”
Luke picked up the sky-blue kit and dangled it by the shoulders. It was heavier than he anticipated, probably because of the many sensors built into the material. “A bit small for you or me. Maybe it would fit – I don’t know – a small girl. A gymnast, perhaps.”
Royston lowered his eyes and said nothing.
“You told me haptic clothing was all about monitoring health but this shade of blue is Yvonne Chaplow’s team colour. So, I’m guessing, there’s an athletics application as well.”
Still Royston stayed silent.
“I’m also guessing it’s not allowed. That’s why you’re prickly about the Games,” Luke said. He could tell from Royston’s expression that he’d hit the target. “You’re helping athletes cheat. How does it work? How did a bit of cloth make Ford Drayton into a perfect runner? Come on. You might as well come clean now I’ve got this far. I could get Malc to look through your computer records and no doubt he’d find sports gear designed for members of Yvonne Chaplow’s team.”
“All right,” Royston replied grudgingly. He shook his head, realizing he was in a defenceless position. “It’s true. Give athletes haptic clothing and they’ve got all the feedback they need to fine-tune performance.”
“During a race or just in training?”
“It’s up to them. A marathon runner wouldn’t wear it for a race. It’s hardly normal gear for distance, is it? But a gymnast or rower wouldn’t stand out.”
“What exactly does it do?”
“It’s a great training tool. When the athlete’s got it on, the tactile signals go into a computer for analysis. A coach can prompt whoever’s wearing it to use specific muscles more, change a rhythm, or whatever. But there’s a better way. I’ve put vibrating pads in them for automatic feedback. If the computer senses poor body movement or posture, it shakes the pad against the under-performing part, alerting
the athlete straightaway. That way, they make a correction before bad habits set in.”
“It’s like having a trainer on your shoulder, telling you what to do all the time.”
Royston nodded. “Yes. But far more efficient and precise.” Trying to justify what he was doing, he added, “You’re wrong about one thing. It hasn’t been declared legal or illegal yet.”
“So, right now, it’s wrong. And it’ll always be banned from tournaments because coaching isn’t allowed once an event’s started.” Luke gazed into Royston’s face and said, “No wonder you’re jumpy about the Games. It might be Libby you’re worried sick about, but it’s getting caught over this kit that’s really on your mind.” Luke also understood why Saskia Frame had blushed when Yvonne claimed that her big secret was merely better designed shoes.
“What are you going to do?”
Thinking, Luke drew in a deep breath. “You know, sport’s got to be fair. Otherwise it’s more a test of technology than a competition between people. Either nobody has an advantage like this or everybody does. I don’t mind which, as long as it’s a level playing field.”
Royston repeated his question. “So, what are you going to do?”
Luke turned to his mobile. “Malc?”
“Clarify your enquiry.”
“What have you done with this information?”
“I have sent it to The Sporting Authorities, as required by my programming.”
Facing Royston again, Luke shrugged. “It’s out of my hands. But, if I were you, I’d stop cooperating with Yvonne Chaplow right away. Until the regulations catch up with the technology, my guess is her team will be penalized, maybe even disqualified. That’s tough on them – sad really – but you’ve got to think of all the other competitors, haven’t you?” He paused before adding, “I think you agree with me. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be jittery and your heart rate wouldn’t have gone up last week when I mentioned the Games.”
Royston Klein didn’t reply but he bowed his head.
Leaving the Experimental Technology Institute, Luke said to his mobile, “Actually, I don’t want The Sporting Authorities to do anything about Yvonne Chaplow yet.”