“Anything noteworthy?”
“Yes indeed. It transpires that the late Doctor Dolfin was the recent recipient of the Modem Ponens Award for Innovation in Telecommunications. He won it for designing something called an omnicellular subterceiver. It is a device for locating disaster victims via their mobile telephones.”
“Can’t that be done using GPS tracking?” I asked.
“Ah, you see, this gizmo can access the telephone directly and turn it into a two-way radio, allowing victim and rescuer to communicate even if the network itself has been disabled. It also allows access to all the telephone’s data, contacts, pictures and so forth.”
“Come on, gents,” shouted Danny, relieving our sword swallower of his chest-plate. “Dinner is served.”
*
I dined alone that evening, Urban-Smith having eaten an early supper and headed to Tooting to address the members of the Wandsworth Paranormal Society on the delightful subject of fluctuating sewage tides and their correlation with phantasm sightings along the route of Balham sewer.
I spent a couple of hours completing reports before retiring to my club for an evening of conversation, libation and exotic dance.
When I staggered into the living room of number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews just before midnight, I was surprised to find Urban-Smith at his easel, midway through a new abstract.
“Ah, Rupert.” He stepped back from his canvas. “What do you think?”
Even in my inebriated state, I was unable to appreciate the painting’s aesthetic qualities.
“It is a testament to your artistic prowess that you can produce such finery,” I lied.
“Ha ha.” Urban-Smith slapped his thigh jovially. “Rupert, Rupert, Rupert! Were I to erect a monument to sarcasm, surely I should find your effigy carved upon its face.”
“I need recaffeinating,” was all that I could muster in response as I lurched away to the kitchen to fill the kettle.
Urban-Smith followed me and threw himself onto a chair. “I have examined Professor Gorshkov’s Curriculum Vitae.” He waved said document in the air. “I have uncovered a point of interest.”
I joined him at the table and waited for the water to boil.
“This,” said Urban-Smith, indicating three pages of citations, “is a record of all the Professor’s published research. As you can see, he was a most prolific researcher and author, averaging two or three articles per annum except between the years of 1979 and 1982, when he was employed at the Munchkingrad Institute of Neurological Research. During this time, his CV was notably light, with only two published articles during the entire three-year period. Now, what does that suggest?”
I rose from my seat and prepared two mugs of coffee.
“I am afraid that I am too drunk to apply the full force of my intellect,” I slurred. “You will need to infer on my behalf.”
“I am suspicious,” said Urban-Smith, “that during his tenure at The Munch, as I have termed it, the Professor may have been engaged by the KGB.”
“The KGB?” I deposited the coffees before us and collapsed into my chair.
“Yes. At the height of the Cold War, it was not uncommon for the KGB to cherry-pick the academic cream of the crop and enlist their services, often in exchange for generous funding. I have also heard rumours that those who were unenthusiastic to comply were induced to cooperate by less charitable means. I wonder if some of the Professor’s state-sponsored research at The Munch may have been of a somewhat dubious nature.”
“I would not be in the least bit surprised.” As I reached for my beverage, I could not help but notice that my companion was eyeing me critically.
“Am I missing something?” I asked.
“You have a lady’s undergarments protruding from your breast pocket.”
“Don’t worry,” I said reassuringly, tucking the briefs out of sight. “They are so insubstantial that I doubt she will even miss them.”
◆◆◆
8. THE MUNCHKINGRAD CONNECTION
Thursday 2nd November
By the middle of Thursday morning, my hangover had almost abated. Dr Dolfin’s toxicology showed no evidence of poisoning or alcohol, so I completed his autopsy report and faxed it to Detective Inspector Gad-jay at Wandsworth Police Station.
Just after eleven, I received a call from Urban-Smith.
“Rupert, can you get away for a couple of hours this afternoon?”
“I think so, if the circumstances justify it.”
“Indeed they do,” he insisted. “I have arranged for us to visit the Department of Electronics and Electrical Engineering at the London Metrosexual at half past two. We are to meet the Director, a Doctor Isabelle Steel, who has agreed to assist us with our enquiries.”
“How did you manage that?”
“I told her that we were part of the investigation into Doctor Dolfin’s death.”
“I suppose that could be broadly interpreted as the truth.”
“I thought so. And please bring some identification or credentials to lend us gravitas. I should hate for her to feel the need to clarify our story with DI Gadget.”
I shuddered at the thought of treading on the Inspector’s toes.
“Right you are, Fairfax. I’ll meet you there.”
“Actually, I’d sooner meet you at the mortuary. We can share a cab.”
But not the fare, I’ll wager, I thought as I hung up.
*
We arrived punctually at the Department of Electronics and Electrical Engineering to find Doctor Isabelle Steel waiting at reception. Dr Steel was a rotund woman in her thirties with shoulder-length, light brown hair, too much makeup and a severe beige suit and jacket, the sternness of which was only mildly abated by the presence of a brooch in the shape of a peacock. She greeted us with a handshake that could have pulped an avocado, and led us to her office on the first floor.
Dr Steel waved us into comfortable leather chairs and took a seat behind her gargantuan desk, the surface of which was cluttered with photographs of her husband and children and bestrewn with various papers and journals.
“How can I be of assistance, gentlemen?” she asked.
Urban-Smith gazed at Dr Steel across the vast expanse of oak.
“As you are aware,” said he, “Dr Harker and I are investigating the circumstances surrounding the tragic and untimely death of Dr Dolfin last weekend. There are a few points that we are hoping to clarify. Were you able to procure for us a copy of the late doctor’s Curriculum Vitae?”
“Yes, of course.” She reached into her desk drawer and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “On the telephone, you said you wished to know more about the subterceiver.”
“Yes, please.”
“How much do you already know?”
“Only that which is on your departmental website.”
She rifled through her drawers again and produced a glossy, A4 brochure. “This is the press release.” She handed it to Urban-Smith, who passed it directly to me.
Upon the cover was a picture of the omnicellular subterceiver, a black plastic box with integral LCD screen, keyboard and mouse pad. Beneath the picture was the legend, ‘Winner of the 2006 Modem Ponens Award for Innovation in Telecommunications.’
“The subterceiver,” explained Dr Steel, “as its name suggests, is designed to locate and communicate with mobile telephones that may be buried underneath tons of rubble or an avalanche. The current model has a range of three hundred metres and can analyse and connect with any mobile communication device within that area in order to assist with identification and location of disaster victims. It can extract data from a telephone handset or sim card even if the network is down.
“After the Indonesian earthquake in May, Fedya flew a prototype out there personally. According to reports, hundreds of victims were located using the subterceiver and dozens were saved.” She smiled and gazed into the corner of the room. “He was so proud. We all were.”
Her face darkened. “Unfortunately not everybody saw i
t in such a positive light. Once the conspiracy nuts heard about it, they circulated rumours that the subterceiver had been commissioned by MI6 to snoop on militants and activists, and before long, the student forums and chat rooms were awash with it. It became so bad that, on several occasions, students were caught snooping around the building, and we had to upgrade the security system. Now there are cameras everywhere, retinal scanners, you name it.”
Urban-Smith stiffened. “Retinal scanners?”
“Oh, yes. Access to the second floor is rigorously restricted.”
“Are we able to see the subterceiver?”
“I’m afraid it isn’t here. One prototype is in Indonesia, and Fedya took the other two away with him at the weekend.”
“Why would he do that?”
Dr Steel shrugged dismissively. “Fedya often took his work home with him. He liked to tinker in his spare time. I understand that his basement is stuffed to the gunwales with various odds and ends.”
“Are you sure that it was he who removed the equipment?” I enquired. “No chance of burglarious activity?”
“I must confess, Dr Harker, that I was somewhat perturbed when I arrived on Monday morning to find the subterceiver missing, but a quick review of the security log told me that Fedya had been in late Friday evening and retrieved it. I spoke to Mrs Dolfin yesterday, and she assures me that she will dig it out and return it after the funeral.” She shook her head sadly. “That poor woman. Her first two husbands died suddenly too. It’s just tragic.”
“Perhaps she needs to work on her cookery skills,” offered Urban-Smith compassionately. He checked his watch. “Do you have time to show us around Doctor Dolfin’s office and work area?”
“I’m afraid not. I’m expecting a Detective Inspector Gad-jay here at any moment. He wishes to speak to some of Fedya’s colleagues.”
Urban-Smith and I exchanged stricken looks and hurriedly excused ourselves, fleeing the scene with Dr Dolfin’s CV and the shiny subterceiver brochure.
*
By four o’clock, I was back in my office, where I spent an hour reviewing an autopsy report from the previous week in preparation for a visit to the Coroner’s court in the ante meridiem.
On my return home, I headed straight upstairs and into the shower, and was dressed for supper by six. Urban-Smith was waiting at the kitchen table, surfing the virtual waves upon his laptop.
“Rupert,” he cried without looking up. “Please indulge me for a few minutes; I am investigating the Dolfin family tree. Apparently, back in the eighteenth century, Count Borya Dolfin was a Field Marshall in the Russian Imperial Army, and Borya’s son, Count Petya Dolfin, was a prominent statesman. Over the last century, the Dolfins have produced noted scientists, sportsmen and political figures. Did you know Doctor Dolfin’s grandfather was awarded the Nobel Prize for chemistry?”
“Very impressive,” said I.
“But that is not the half of it. Guess where the good Doctor was working between 1981 and 1983.”
I took my place at the table as Mrs Denford clattered and fluttered about us. “Surely not at The Munch?”
“Very close. At the Munchkingrad Institute of Technology, which I have termed The Munchit.” Urban-Smith handed me Dr Dolfin’s curriculum vitae. “You will observe that there is a distinct paucity of published research from the middle of 1981 until late 1983.”
“Indeed,” I concurred. “That is most suggestive.”
“I believe we now have our link between the two academics,” said Urban-Smith, “but still no evidence of foul play.”
“Munchkingrad is a large city, Fairfax. There’s no reason to suppose that Gorshkov and Dolfin ever met.”
“That is true,” he agreed, “but I would be willing to wager that the missing subterceivers will fail to resurface. If I am correct, then my suspicions will become increasingly hard to ignore.”
I mulled it over briefly. “Do you consider the index of suspicion high enough to approach Detective Inspector Gadget?”
He shook his head vigorously. “All we have are two curricula vitae with concurrent fallow periods. I believe that our vulgar vocabularian would regard it as purely circumstantial.”
“Come now, gentlemen,” interjected Mrs Denford. “Make some room for my fish supper, or you’ll be eating it off your laps.”
◆◆◆
9. THE CADAVEROUS CONSUL
Sunday 5th November
Friday had proved to be a busy end to a busy week, so I elected to spend the weekend in quiet contemplation. Four o’clock on Sunday afternoon found me collapsed upon the sofa, studying an illustrated bulletin of procreative physiology while Urban-Smith stood at his easel, painting an interpretive work of what appeared to be either a squashed ferret rolling in ketchup or an explosion in a mortuary.
There came a knock at the living room door, and Mrs Denford entered, bearing the telephone handset. “There’s a call for you, Fairfax.”
“Thank you, Mrs Denford.”
“Would you like some tea?”
“That would be delightful, thank you.”
Mrs Denford retired to make tea, and Urban-Smith turned his faculties to the matter at hand.
“Hello, this is Fairfax Urban-Smith. Ah, Wendell. Yes, I am well. And yourself? Delighted to hear it. Have I seen what news?”
He suddenly stiffened as if shocked with a cattle prod.
“Good Lord!” he cried. “No, I am sorry. It is just that I am filled with a profound sense of déjà vu that I had not anticipated. We shall be with you within the hour. We? Dr Rupert Harker, the noted forensic pathologist, will be accompanying me. Yes, I know the way. Within the hour. Goodbye.”
He terminated the call.
“My dear Rupert! It appears that a short time ago, the Russian Ambassador laughed himself to death.”
*
Detective Sergeant Wendell McKendal of the Met was waiting for us at the gates of the Russian Embassy on Bantam Square. A cold drizzle was just beginning, and McKendal huddled against the wind in his woollen overcoat, his trilby pulled low over his brow and his thick moustache flapping upon his lip.
We disembarked our taxicab, and I imbursed and tipped the driver, a swarthy, east-European gentleman who blew me a kiss and pinched me on the buttock as is apparently the custom. He reversed out into the traffic, causing a number 17 bus to swerve rather alarmingly, and only narrowly missing a coachful of blind orphans. I shook my head sadly as the braying of car horns and guide dogs faded into the distance.
Urban-Smith made introductions.
“Wendell, may I please introduce my friend and lodger, Dr Rupert Harker? Rupert is a forensic pathologist at St Clifford’s. Rupert, this is my friend and fellow Etonian, DS Wendell McKendal of Scotland Yard.”
“A pleasure, Doctor,” said McKendal as we shook hands. “Hopefully you and Fairfax can assist me in preventing a diplomatic incident. Shall we go inside?”
We entered through wrought-iron gates and continued along the path to the main entrance, where we were greeted by two burly uniformed officers. McKendal led us through the reception area and down the main hallway, its polished wooden floors intermittently overlaid by sumptuous Persian rugs and flanked by leather chairs on the one aspect and mahogany sideboards on the other.
“How was it,” Urban-Smith asked DS McKendal, “that you coveted my association in this matter?”
“The Senior Counsellor has requested your involvement, Fairfax. Apparently, he has heard of your proficiency in matters of the extraordinary.”
“Then let us hope that we do not disappoint.”
We passed through a set of large double doors bearing the words, ‘Сангвина Зала/Sanguine Hall,’ and stepped into a cavernous room which had clearly been laid out for a public function of some description, with several tables piled with plates of finger food and jugs of various beverages. Uniformed officers were stationed about the perimeter, and anxious-looking civilians in formal wear, whom I took to be members of the Russian Consulat
e, had gathered into small clusters, muttering quietly to one another.
Towards the far end of the hall, the unfortunate victim lay on his back, his arms outstretched and his shirt undone. There were defibrillator pads attached to his chest and an intravenous cannula in his left hand. He sported a broad grin, and his eyes had resisted all attempts to close them. The hapless fellow looked perfectly deranged and quite dead.
“What a very public affair,” said Urban-Smith. “Doubtless, news will have spread by word, web and wireless. I understand now, Wendell, why you asked me if I was aware of the incident so soon after it occurred.”
Urban-Smith knelt to examine the body. First, he inspected the hands and fingernails, then undid the cuffs and rolled the sleeves to the elbows. He made a brief examination of the lips and teeth, then rotated the head left and right, checking the ears and the sides of the neck. He inspected the tie, which had been removed but not undone, and palpated the torso from chest to waist before turning his attentions to the belt and buckle. He worked his way down the front of the trousers, pausing awhile at the hem. He inspected the knot of the shoelaces, then removed the deceased’s shoes, studied the socks and then rolled the trouser legs up to the knees.
“May we roll him over, please?”
DS McKendal and I turned the body onto its side, and Urban-Smith examined the back of the scalp and neck, the lower back and the calves.
He stood and shook his head sadly. “It is indeed a solemn occasion when a man dies, leaving such a devoted wife and at least two young children.”
McKendal had said nothing of the man’s habits or family.
“How do you know about his family?” I asked. “Other than the wedding ring, of course.”
“Observe the hems of the trousers. The left has come down and been resewn immaculately. That it is not his own handiwork is evidenced by his somewhat slapdash method of shaving. He has missed a patch at the angle of the right jaw and cut himself twice upon the neck. Clearly, his wife is fastidious in nature and cares more about her husband’s attire and appearance than he does himself. To me, this is strongly suggestive of a close matrimonial bond. That he is a contented husband is confirmed by his progressively expanding waistline. There are three well-worn holes in this belt, and he is currently using that which is furthest from the buckle.
Laugh Out Dead Page 6