I read on.
‘This chasm is all that remains of Wafflebridge Town football ground this morning, after the mysterious, overnight appearance of a massive sinkhole in Cornwall.
At around midnight, emergency services were inundated with reports of shadowy ghosts that plagued the town, and the stadium was heard to collapse shortly afterwards.
“One was out walking the corgis,” said local taxidermist, Fiona Hilfridge, “when little Jeremiah and Siegfried began barking and snarling. I looked up, and there were about a dozen ghostly figures flying around us. Poor Siegfried almost had one of his asthma attacks, and as I bent to give him his inhaler, the ground started to shake and we heard a terrible banging and clattering. When I turned round, there was an enormous cloud of dust and the football ground was gone. Just like that!”
Full story, page seven.’
I turned to page seven and was relieved to see a picture of Miss Hilfridge posing for the camera, an obviously unscathed corgi beneath each arm.
“What do you make of this, Fairfax?” I asked.
“To the cryptocartographer,” he replied between mouthfuls, “Wafflebridge is a fascinating town, rich in underground rivers and streams which, in places, flow quite close to the surface. Considering that Cornwall is peppered with limestone bedrock and has been mined extensively for tin, it is surprising how infrequently these sinkholes actually occur.”
“And the ghostly apparitions?”
“I am not aware of Cornwall being home to a rich abundance of sensitives,” said he, “but the sudden occurrence of a large underground chamber would be sure to have a geomagnetic effect, especially in conjunction with any interruption of established water channels.”
This sounded a perfectly reasonable explanation.
“That sounds a perfectly reasonable explanation,” I suggested.
“No need to sound so surprised,” he replied huffily, reclaiming his paper.
*
After breakfast, I contacted Scotland Yard and spoke to DS McKendal, who agreed to meet us at half past nine. Upon our arrival, we were directed to the incident room which, due to the high-profile nature of the LOL curse, was abuzz with activity.
“We have been collecting statements from eye witnesses at the Embassy and the Ritz,” said McKendal, “and we have been trying to reconstruct Dr Dolfin’s movements on the night of his death.”
“About that,” I ventured. “I am going to need you to contact M. Balmer and Sons on Putney High Street and ask them to return Dr Dolfin to the mortuary, please.” I explained the position in regard to the glass eye.
“I can arrange that for you, Dr Harker.”
“Thank you, Detective Sergeant.”
DS McKendal telephoned the undertaker’s and spent a minute or two interjecting with the necessary yeses and uh-huhs. Presently he terminated the call. “He’s not there.”
“Not there?” I cried.
“It was apparently his wish to be buried in his birthplace of Kubinka. They were very apologetic, but they did not realise that the body may be required for further examination.”
“Nor did I,” I protested. “At the time I completed my report, it appeared to be death from natural causes.” I turned to Urban-Smith, suddenly frantic with uncertainty. “Where do we go from here?”
Urban-Smith laid his hand upon my shoulder. “There is a tide in the affairs of men, Rupert,” said he sympathetically. “I am afraid that our Dolfin has swum with it.”
*
DS McKendal had spoken to the London Metrosexual University’s Estates Manager and obtained security footage from the previous Friday. Urban-Smith and I sat with him at his desk, reviewing the footage on his computer.
Events unfolded thusly…
*
Just after ten p.m, Dr Dolfin’s blue BMW arrives at the University’s main gate, where the security officer checks the car registration and the driver’s ID card before waving him through.
The car is driven to the Department of Electronics and Electrical Engineering and parked adjacent to the front entrance. The driver disembarks and looks this way and that, surveying the car park as he approaches the entrance. His movements clearly indicate an able-bodied, masculine presence, slim but not delicate. He wears a long overcoat over dark clothing, with a beanie hat pulled low over his brow and a scarf wrapped around his neck, obscuring his features. It is a chill night, and his breath hangs in the air about him as he fumbles his keycard from his pocket to gain access to the Department.
The visitant makes his way through the building, using his keycard to enter and exit from the stairwell, then proceeds swiftly to the end of the first-floor corridor where Dr Dolfin’s office is located.
He pauses briefly to attend to the iris-recognition scanner, but it is not clear whether the eye used to unlock the door is in the head or the hand. Having accessed the office, he liberates the omnicellular subterceivers and is out of the building and back to his car less than two minutes later. By ten past ten, the department’s car park is empty.
*
McKendal scrolled the video backwards, paused it at a suitable moment in the onscreen proceedings and enlarged the image. “Is that Dr Dolfin?” he asked me.
I peered intently at the screen, but enlargement had reduced the image’s clarity, and the features were grainy and indistinct.
“It may be,” I replied. “The build seems slighter, but I cannot be sure. Is there any way to make it clearer?”
Unfortunately, there was not.
“What of the car?” asked Urban-Smith.
“It is registered to the deceased,” McKendal confirmed. “We traced it as far as we could using traffic cameras, but lost him around Finsbury Park when he turned off into a side road. The security guard says that he recognised the car and examined the driver’s credentials, but did not make a close inspection of the driver, though he recalls that it was a male fitting the doctor’s description.”
“Do you have any footage from the burglary at St Onker’s?”
“As a matter of fact I do, although I have not yet had the time to review it.”
McKendal rummaged through his inbox, withdrew a CD-ROM and slipped it into the CD-drive of his computer. The screen divided into nine zones, each showing a different area of the building or car park. McKendal selected the security footage for the night of Sunday, the first of October and played it back at high speed until he found some activity, and we watched the proceedings with interest.
The perpetrator was clearly male, above average height and without excess weight, clad in dark clothing and with a balaclava over his face. He carried a large item of hand-luggage, from which he withdrew a crowbar before disappearing around the side of the Neuroscience Research Centre.
“He jemmied open the fire exit,” explained McKendal as our burglar reappeared inside the building a few moments later. “He apparently knew the code for the alarm. Not too hard to acquire if you have deep pockets.”
We watched as the intruder made his way to the second floor, forced the lock on Professor Gorshkov’s laboratory door and then crossed swiftly to the desk. He deftly dismantled the desktop computer, secreting the hard drive in his bag along with a laptop computer, some boxes of discs, and a piece of equipment that Dr Grove had described as an infrasonic polytone generator. He made good his escape, and from curtain-up to exit stage-left, the whole performance lasted less than fifteen minutes.
“So there you are.” McKendal ejected the disc from his computer and checked his wristwatch. “I’d better shoot off,” he said. “I have to go over to Wandsworth for a briefing with the DI. Any joy with that sound file I sent you?”
“Not yet, Wendell, but I have my best man on it.”
*
Urban-Smith and I shared a taxi from Scotland Yard to St Clifford’s.
“Fairfax?”
“Yes?”
“You seem a very busy man, yet nothing you undertake appears to generate any income. I take it that you are independently we
althy.”
“Indeed I am,” he replied. “My brother and I were the sole heirs to our uncle, Earl Bifton’s estate.”
“The Earl Bifton? Of Bifton’s Biscuits?”
“The very same,” he confirmed proudly.
“Did he not sell out to the Americans?”
“Oh yes, and a tidy sum he received. Unfortunately, Ulysses and I were not permitted the entire fortune in one fell swoop. It has been decreed that we each should receive a generous monthly allowance, which allows me to pursue my own avenues of interest while remaining financially solvent, if not actually flush.”
“Is that so?” I mused rhetorically. “That does rather beg the question; why is it that I always pay for the taxi?”
“Do you really?” he asked unconvincingly. “I had not noticed.”
*
As usual, I paid our driver, and Urban-Smith departed for Chuffnell Mews on foot while I made my way onwards to the Forensic Pathology Department to seek out Beefy Stockford in his office. I rapped on the door.
“Morning, Beefy.”
“Rupert, come in. How goes it?”
“Not bad. Keeping my hand in. Did you receive any reply to that e-mail; the one about the thalamic strokes?”
“Not a dicky-bird, I’m afraid, but I’ll let you know if I get a bite.”
“Thanks, Beefy.”
*
When I returned to my lodgings that evening, Mrs Denford was preparing her famous jellied eel and tripe cassoulet. She shooed me out of the kitchen with strict instructions to return promptly at half past six, and so I retreated to the living room.
I discovered Urban-Smith in his favourite chair, with eyes tightly closed, his hands intertwined and his fingers protruding at grotesque angles as if fractured and dislocated. I stared in disbelief as his writhing hands changed from one tortuous contortion to another. It looked agonising, yet his face was calm and relaxed.
He opened an eye. “Good evening, Rupert.”
“What the Dickens are you doing?”
The eye closed again. “I assume you are familiar with yandra; the art of tantric hand yoga. I am a 4th level practitioner.”
“Never heard of it,” I said, flopping down onto the sofa like a landed trout.
“Yandra‘s origins can be traced to the 8th century in Southern India. It is based upon the principle that the hands are the keys to unlocking the inner self, and to free them from the constraints of their traditional orientation is to free the spirit. Over the centuries, it has led to the development of shadow puppetry, but was also a technique popularised by Harry Houdini, allowing him to release himself from manacles and bonds that would otherwise have been unescapable.”
I swung my feet up and reached for a periodical. “You are a strange goose, Fairfax.”
He continued to fold and flex his fingers for a few moments. “I’m a bit rusty,” said he, stretching his arms out above his head, “but it’s much like riding a bike. Did you speak to Beefy?”
“I did. No joy, I’m afraid. Have you had any further thoughts on our masked burglar or burglars?”
“Only that they appeared to know their way around each building rather well, but I suspect the layout of each is readily available if one knows where to look.”
We deliberated further until and throughout supper, and were still doing so as we settled back in the living room to watch the seven o’clock news. An American socialite had lost her shoe at a party, and most of the bulletin was devoted to speculation as to its whereabouts. The LOL curse was but fleetingly mentioned.
“Our case seems to have gone somewhat off the boil,” I observed.
“That is not good, Rupert. If our problem-reaction-solution theory is correct, then our perpetrator will soon move to turn up the heat.”
“I am not convinced about this theory,” I said, stifling a yawn, for my meal had been both filling and delicious, and I was becoming a little drowsy. “I prefer the idea that this is by way of an advertisement, and that the killer will now set about touting his device to the highest bidder.”
Before we could explore further, there came a sharp rapping at the front door, then the sound of Mrs Denford upon the stairs. The door was answered, and there was a brief exchange of words before Mrs Denford appeared in the doorway. “Fairfax, there are two heavily armed gentlemen here to see you.”
“Heavily armed? How so, Mrs Denford?”
“One gentleman is carrying a Makarov semi-automatic pistol, and the other a Kashtan submachine gun; probably members of the Russian military.”
There came to loom behind her an enormous man in a black suit, sporting a crew cut and said Makarov. Mrs Denford stepped aside, and he gazed down at her. “Spasibo, Madam,” he growled in an accent that was indubitably Soviet.
Mrs Denford blushed and giggled as he squeezed past her into the room. A second visitor, equally large and identically attired, followed a few steps behind. Each man stood well over six feet, even taller than Urban-Smith and at least twice his width. Urban-Smith and I rose from the sofa to face them.
“Should I bring a tray of tea?” enquired Mrs Denford.
“No, thank you, Mrs Denford.” Urban-Smith dismissed her with a wave of the hand and turned to our visitors. “Good evening, gentlemen. How can we be of service?”
The man with the pistol spoke. “Our Komandir wishes to speak with you. You will come with us, please.”
Urban-Smith folded his arms. “And if I refuse?”
Our guest pointed the Makarov at my chest. “First, I kill the karlik (dwarf), then the babushka.”
“There’s no need for that. I’ll do as you ask.” Urban-Smith raised his hands to shoulder level and moved to the doorway.
“You too, karlik!” The large Russian motioned towards the door with his gun.
“What do you need me for?” I asked.
He smiled nastily. “Leverage.”
Urban-Smith snorted. “Clearly, you have a limited understanding of levers.”
“Must you continually reference my stature?” I protested.
“Move!” Our guest motioned again, and we filed up the hallway and out onto the street, where an unmarked, black sedan was waiting, its motor running and its rear door open.
Urban-Smith and I climbed into the back seat, and the Russian with the pistol climbed in beside us. His companion entered the passenger seat, muttered a few words to the driver, and the car pulled away from the kerb and towards the Marylebone Road.
*
We drove in silence for over an hour, heading East through London onto the A13, across the M25, and then turning south to follow signs to, ‘Tilbury and Docks.’
It was not a comfortable journey for me, sandwiched as I was between a restive Urban-Smith and a gargantuan, muscle-bound myrmidon who was almost as wide as the car itself.
We arrived at our destination and drove anticlockwise to the west side of the port, parking between two rows of shipping containers, adjacent to the railway line that snaked around the dock’s perimeter. We were encouraged from the car and held at gunpoint while the driver and second gunman jabbered together in Russian.
I gazed about me. The place was well lit, but not particularly busy. There were a few dock workers within earshot, but I thought it wise not to draw attention to our predicament, as I was convinced that our sentinels could happily put a bullet into each of us and lose not a wink of sleep over it.
To each side stood row upon row of red, green or blue shipping containers, each about forty feet in length and eight or nine feet tall. They bore various legends upon the sides, betraying their ownership or origins, and were arranged mostly in a single layer, although in some places they had been stacked two or three high.
I had never before frequented a dock and was surprised that, rather than smelling of fish, it smelled pleasantly of fuel with a subtle hint of the sea.
“Come on.” Our captors had completed their dialogue. The driver remained in the car, and the two gunmen herded us towards the waterside,
where a cargo ship bearing the legend, ‘легких железа’ (Iron Lung) was moored. In the glare of the dockside lights, the ship’s hull was a dull green with lighter superstructure, and I estimated its length to be around three hundred feet.
Urban-Smith and I were ushered up the gangplank, across the deck to the deckhouse, and then up a few flights of metal steps, past the crew quarters and into the compass bridge.
The bridge was modest, about fifteen by fifteen feet, and entirely circled by windows offering a panoramic view of the river and docks. The bow side was dominated by a 180-degree console, incorporating various screens and dials. Two padded, swivelling pilot’s seats were attached to the floor, and two wooden chairs had been laid out in the centre of the bridge for us.
Lounging in one of the pilot’s seats was a slender gentleman in his late forties or early fifties, his neatly trimmed hair and beard shot through with grey. Even without the dart-throwing gorilla, I recognised him as Colonel Smirnitsky from Urban-Smith’s drawing.
The Colonel wore jeans and a jumper, black leather boots and a black leather jacket. His blue eyes were keen and penetrating, and he had a wry smile that radiated calm confidence and authority. He spoke to our escorts, who nodded and retreated outside onto the deck, where they stood smoking and glowering at us through the window.
Our host lit a cigar and languidly puffed smoke towards the ceiling.
Urban-Smith sniffed inquisitively. “Habanos?” he ventured.
“Correct. Would you care for one?”
“No, thank you, Colonel.” Urban-Smith made the introductions. “Rupert, this is Colonel Maksim Smirnitsky, Russian Military Attaché in London. Colonel, this is Dr Rupert Harker, my friend and colleague.” Urban-Smith took a seat, and I likewise. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”
“I have important information for you, Mr Urban-Smith, but I must impress upon both of you the confidential nature of this conversation. I need your word as gentlemen that you will not speak to anyone of this meeting or of your journey to and from this ship. Do you agree? Have I your word?”
We both swore to abide by his instruction, and he continued.
“I do not impart this information lightly, but this business sickens me and I wish it to cease.” He took a few puffs on his cigar, gathering his thoughts. “You are correct in your deduction that both Gorshkov and Dolfin undertook research for the KGB early in their careers, as did most academics whose education was sponsored by the state. In return for their cooperation, our scientists were given the best equipment and facilities available. Those that chose not to assist found themselves in less prestigious surroundings.”
Laugh Out Dead Page 10