Laugh Out Dead

by Rupert Harker

  “It is a drawing of a duck playing the banjo,” said I.

  “Yes it is.”

  “Is it relevant?”

  “That remains to be seen.” The drawing vanished into his pocket, along with his notebook.

  “Should we not inform Detective Sergeant McKendal of the autopsy findings?” I suggested.

  “I am expecting his call at any time.”

  On cue, Mrs Denford knocked at the living room door and presented herself at stage left. “There’s a call for you, Fairfax.”

  “Aha! Thank you, Mrs Denford.” He held the receiver to his ear. “What do you have for us, Wendell?” His face fell, and he looked suddenly grave. “Mercy! How is the poor man? So, there is hope? Yes, we will come at once.”

  He terminated the conversation and regarded me with solemnity etched upon his features. “One of Wendell’s colleagues has been struck down by a fit. He is unconscious in the Intensive Care Unit of St Clifford’s. They have commenced him on a mental infusion, though I have no idea what that entails.”

  “Not mental,” I corrected, “mannitol. Mannitol is used to reduce pressure within the brain. It may save him.”

  “Come, Rupert.” Urban-Smith rose and indicated for me to do likewise. “We must put a stop to this affair before anyone else’s eternal spirit is forwarded to the great voicemail in the sky.”

  *

  We arrived at Scotland Yard at around half past seven, and the desk sergeant directed us to DS McKendal’s office on the second floor, overlooking Victoria Street. Urban-Smith already knew the way, and I had to jog to keep pace with him as he hastened up the stairs towards our destination.

  The office was spacious, but untidy, with papers strewn across the desk and spilling onto the floor. McKendal motioned for us to sit.

  “What has happened, Wendell?” asked Urban-Smith.

  “One of our forensic officers, Kent Gribble, was struck down as he examined Ambassador Vishminakov’s mobile telephone.”

  “Aha!” Urban-Smith slapped the surface of the desk, sending a cascade of coffee-stained papers skittering onto the coffee-stained carpet. “It is as I surmised. A poisoned telephone, yes?”

  “No. We examined the telephone for signs of biological or chemical contamination and found none. The memory card contains photographs of the Ambassador with his family, and no other person’s fingerprints were found upon the casing. There is no doubt that it is his telephone and it has not been substituted or tampered with. It had been deemed safe to proceed with further inspection, and Officer Gribble was examining the phone’s contents when he collapsed.”

  “But if the telephone is untainted,” protested Urban-Smith, but McKendal silenced him with a raised hand.

  “Ten minutes prior to the fatal call there had been another, and that time the caller left a message. It was when Gribble listened to this message that he was overcome by mirth and merriment, followed by collapse. An ambulance was called, and he has been admitted to the intensive care unit of St Clifford’s. I am told that he has had a CT scan, lumbar puncture and blood tests, and is being treated with intravenous antibiotics and goodness knows what else. The prognosis is guarded.”

  “My God!” murmured Urban-Smith. “It is not the telephone that carries the affliction. It is the call itself.”

  “How is it that he survived?” I asked.

  “That is unclear,” replied McKendal, “but it may be that the voicemail kicked in at the very end of the call, and Officer Gribble was only exposed to a few seconds of it.” Mckendal’s voice was steady, but his face was suffused with suppressed rage. “How is he doing it, Fairfax? How can a phone call cause such malady?”

  “To answer that,” mused Urban-Smith, “one must consider the true function of a telephone, which is to convey vibrations. Sounds, speech, music; these are merely our interpretations of these vibrations.

  “You will not be aware, Wendell, but the late Professor Gorshkov’s research involved the use of oscillating, low-frequency sound waves to stimulate specific areas of the brain. Not long before his death, his lab was burgled and much of his data and equipment stolen. I believe that the thief has managed to weaponise Gorshkov’s techniques and is using them to target the nervous system.”

  Inspector McKendal stroked his moustache with palpable perturbation.

  “That seems plausible. Terrifying, but plausible.”

  I was appalled. “To kill a man with a telephone call. Could there be a more dispassionate way to despatch an enemy?”

  “It is perfect,” replied McKendal. “Untraceable, anonymous, remote. Great heavens, you could strike from the other side of the globe.”

  “It transpires,” said Urban-Smith, “that the Russian Ambassador’s post-mortem revealed the same signs as Professor Gorshkov’s; and they are not the only ones. Rupert conducted an autopsy just a few days ago on a third victim, a Russian gentleman by the name of Doctor Fedya Dolfin. Each of these men’s brains has displayed a very unusual pattern of bleeding that Rupert has not encountered before. Isn’t that right, Rupert?”

  I indicated affirmation.

  “Are you aware of anything to link the three men, Fairfax?” asked McKendal.

  “I have reason to believe that both Gorshkov and Dolfin had previously conducted state-sponsored research for the KGB. Or should I say FSB?” Urban-Smith briefly outlined the anomalous inactive research periods on both victims’ Curricula Vitae along with the nature of the missing equipment from each man’s place of work. “I have asked Mr Gulin, the Senior Counsellor, to arrange for me to meet the Military Attaché, Colonel Maksim Smirnitsky, and I am awaiting his reply. Perhaps he will be able to shed some light.”

  McKendal huffed and his great moustache rose and fell like a ship upon the swell. “I wouldn’t bank on it, Fairfax. These Russian chappies can be notoriously tight-lipped.”

  “What is the motive for killing the Ambassador?” I asked. “Furthermore, if one has the technology to kill via the telephone, why choose to assassinate these men in such a conspicuous way? Surely the power of this technique lays in its ability to induce what appears to be a natural death. All three victims could have been found dead in their homes like Dr Dolfin, or in their cars or offices, and nobody would have been any the wiser.”

  “Clearly somebody wishes to draw our attention to these deaths,” suggested DS McKendal, “or draw it away from something else.”

  “I suspect the former,” said Urban-Smith. “Our killer has the perfect assassination method. Perhaps he is advertising his wares.” He pondered for a moment. “Rupert, did you say that Beefy had circulated an e-mail seeking information about similar stroke victims?”

  “I did.”

  “I would be very surprised if we did not hear of at least one more victim.”

  “Why so certain?” I asked.

  “Because there must have been a trial run; a dress rehearsal before the main show. Wendell, can you have a copy of that voicemail message sent to my e-mail? I will find a way to analyse it safely. In the interim, let us hope that the media remain ignorant of the modus operandi of these killings. I fear that the phone-wielding populace would be scandalised beyond tolerance.”

  “Perhaps that is the desired outcome,” I suggested.

  “Maybe so,” said McKendal, “but I agree that we keep this under our hats. We don’t want to cause a panic.”

  *

  Sadly, dis aliter visam…. iterum; fate had deemed otherwise…. again.

  ◆◆◆

  11. THE MEDICAL MIRACLE

  Tuesday 7th November

  I ambled into the kitchen for breakfast on Tuesday morning to find Mrs Denford charging about, clanging the dishes. Urban-Smith shuffled in behind me and we seated ourselves across from one another at the table.

  “Good grief!” he exclaimed as he unfolded his early edition of The Scrump. He turned the newspaper around to show me the front-page picture, a Jolly Roger with the skull replaced by a mobile telephone handset.

  ‘VOODOOP
HONE NETWORK’, screamed the headline.

  “Very tasteful,” I volunteered as I reached for the marmalade. “It is heartening to see the popular press endeavouring to offer a reasoned, coherent representation of the situation.”

  For my benefit, Urban-Smith read the article aloud.

  “Mobile telephone networks moved yesterday to downplay rumours of a lethal malfunction that has already claimed two victims. On Sunday, the Russian Ambassador for the UK, Mr Rostislav Vishminakov, answered a mysterious call, which caused him to collapse in a fit of hysterical laughter before dying moments later in front of terrified onlookers.

  ‘It was just like that scene from Badgerman when the Prankster kills the Mayor using laughing gas,’ one eyewitness reported.”

  Urban-Smith lowered the newspaper.

  “My brother and I both wanted to be Badgerman when we were growing up. My mother made each of us a black cape with white stripes. I think Ulysses may still have his somewhere.” He resumed reading.

  “Just last month, eminent neuroscientist, Professor Trofim Gorshkov, collapsed and died during a fit of laughter, again caused by a mysterious phone call. A source close to the Professor said, ‘I know that these two deaths are linked, but the authorities are trying to suppress the truth.’

  Within hours of Ambassador Vishminakov’s death, internet forums and chat rooms were awash with speculation about the phenomenon which has been dubbed, ‘the LOL curse.’ Mobile telephone usage in the Capital has dropped by seventy percent in the last twenty-four hours.

  A spokesperson for the Kumquat mobile network released the following statement during the night.

  ‘The so-called LOL curse has been thoroughly investigated by our senior engineers, and there is currently no evidence to suggest any danger to the public from the use of our network. However, until there is formal confirmation from the police, we are advising our customers not to answer any telephone calls from an unrecognised or withheld number, and to consider pre-warning others of their intention to call by first sending a text message.’

  Police have so far refused to confirm or deny the existence of the LOL curse, but many experts believe it may be caused by ‘bloody foreigners.’

  Continued on page 9.”

  “How could this spread so quickly?” I asked. “The article says that news was spreading within hours of the Ambassador’s death, but at that time, only you and I and DS McKendal knew of any suspected link between the victims.”

  “If you recall, Wendell speculated that the purpose of the attacks may have been to draw public attention, and in that respect they have been admirably successful. If his suspicions are correct, then it would have to be the killer themselves who informed the newspapers and proliferated the information online.”

  “Somebody wanted to create mass panic; but why?”

  “It is too soon to tell, but this is just the start of it.” Urban-Smith discarded his newspaper and reached for the toast rack. “Now,” he mused, “if I were the killer and I wished this situation to escalate dramatically, I would strike again while the iron were hot. Mark my words, Rupert, we will be seeing another death within the next few days. I strongly suggest that you do not answer any unsolicited telephone calls, for it is unknown at this stage whether or not our involvement has become a matter of public record.

  “I think it would help if we recap the events in order, to see if a linear narrative clarifies matters.

  “Now, the first event is the burglary that takes place at the Neuroscience Research Centre at St Onker’s, during which the thief liberates computer files and data pertaining to recent research by Professor Gorshkov along with a low-frequency modulator which is being used to stimulate the brain of phobia sufferers. Within a few days, the thief has modified the equipment to be able to transmit a lethal signal through a mobile telephone, and uses that signal to execute the Professor.

  “The next link in the chain of events is the appearance of Professor Gorshkov’s friend and colleague, Dr Herman Grove, who happens to be sensitive to abnormal vibrations and who has suspicions about the death and wishes us to investigate.”

  “That’s certainly his story,” I said, “but what if his motives for contacting you are not quite so innocent? What if Dr Grove, who has intimate knowledge of the Professor, his research and his equipment, is actually responsible and has chosen to involve you because he suspects that you will uncover the truth, which is his objective?”

  “But the truth has come out without our assistance.”

  “That is true,” I said, “but he may be trying to throw us off of the scent.”

  “He also has an excellent alibi; he was sat with the Professor when the phone call was received. The same thing applies to Mrs Gorshkov and indeed the majority of the St Onker’s academic staff.”

  “I really think I am onto something here. With such a sophisticated level of technology, it is not too hard to imagine that it could be controlled remotely or set to activate at a specified time.”

  “Perhaps, Rupert, perhaps. However, for now let us keep an open mind and persist in our narrative. After Dr Grove’s visit, we investigated the circumstances, concluded that the death was of natural cause and relayed this to Dr Grove.”

  “Shortly after which, Dr Dolfin was killed. Don’t you see,” I insisted, “when we lost interest in the case, Dr Grove engineered another death to put us back to the scent.”

  “And how precisely could he have known that you would be the one to perform Dr Dolfin’s post-mortem? Did he also arrange that?”

  “I suppose not,” I said sulkily.

  “You certainly have it in for poor Dr Grove. Do you object to the cut of his jib?”

  “I find all his swooning and splenic collapse a little contrived. I don’t trust him.”

  “Duly noted, Rupert. So, the next event is that Dr Fedya Dolfin leaves his place of work on Friday evening, comes home to see his wife off for the weekend, then returns to his office several hours later to liberate his award-winning subterceivers which he could have simply taken earlier. That night, he is killed with no witnesses and no nearby telephone, suggesting that the perpetrator visited the scene and undertook some remedial housework to hide the evidence, which is in marked contrast to the other two deaths. I suspect that the motive for this killing was the theft of the subterceivers, which were presumably required for the next stage of the proceedings.

  “This brings us Sunday afternoon, which finds the Russian Ambassador hob-nobbing with assorted dignitaries. His mobile telephone rings and he ignores the call which is forwarded to his voicemail, the caller leaving a brief message which the unfortunate Officer Gribble is subsequently exposed to. Ten minutes later, there is a second call which kills the Ambassador. Within a few hours, the culprit has alerted the press and public in order to create panic and confusion which, as hypothesised, seems to be the purpose of the exercise thus far.”

  “That does seem to convey the whole nub and gist of the matter in a nutshell,” I agreed. “Clearly this subterceiver was critical in the assassination of the Russian Ambassador, but not that of Professor Gorshkov. As I understand it, this gizmo allows one access to any mobile phone within a three hundred metre radius, without the use of a network.”

  “That is correct.”

  “So,” I continued, “the call must have been initiated within three hundred metres of the victim. That suggests to me that, in the case of Professor Gorshkov, the killer would have to be even closer to hand, which brings us rather neatly back to Dr Grove. If we assume that the second killing was motivated by theft, then it would be of no consequence one way or the other whether the connection was made to the other deaths. And in the event of the link being overlooked, he has very obligingly seen to it that the facts be splashed all across the internet and tabloid press.” I clapped my hands. “Ha! Bang to rights. Can you find fault with my logic?”

  Before Urban-Smith could retort, there came a tremendous banging at the front door, and Mrs Denford (who until this poi
nt had remained both still and silent) leapt to attention like an electrified salmon. She barrelled out of the kitchen and down the hall, returning a few moments later to report.

  “It’s The Filth.”

  “Oh God,” I groaned. “Not Inspector Gadget.”

  “It’s Gad-JAY, you idiot. It’s French.” Detective Inspector Gadget scowled at us from the doorway. “Well, well, well,” he drawled, “if it isn’t Irksome-Smith and Doctor Half-pint.”

  Inspector Gadget swaggered into the kitchen, seated himself uninvited at the table and drained my mug of tea with one gulp. He wiped his mouth and gave me a nasty smirk.

  “I’ve urinated in that tea, you know,” I said maturely.

  “It has come to my attention,” said DI Gadget, “that you may have some information pertinent to my investigation.” He leaned forwards. “I don’t know how you came to be involved, but this has now been passed up the food chain to me, and I want to know what’s going on. This LOL curse sounds just like the sort of stupid bullshit that you love to go wading through, so go on; enlighten me.”

  And so we did. Gadget listened to the whole tale silently, nodding on occasion, and when we had finished, he leant back against his chair and frowned.

  “I don’t like it,” snarled DI Gadget. “I don’t like anything about it. I don’t like you, and I don’t like the fact that the Russian Consulate has asked you to be involved in the investigation. I don’t like your smug grin or your stupid theories or your pet midget here.”

  “It’s pronounced mid-jay,” I said snottily. “It’s French.”

  “Ha ****ing-ha.” Gadget turned his attention back to Urban-Smith. “I especially don’t like it that one of my officers has been injured, and when I find the person or persons responsible, I am going to have their guts for garters. If either of you muppets turn anything up, I want it. Capisce?”

  We capisced.

  “I don’t want to have to talk to you idiots again,” said Gadget, glowering, “so you pass any information straight to DS McKendal. There’s incident rooms set up at the Met and at Wandsworth Station.”