Stone Message

by Peter Parfitt

  The assembly of “the Beast” was the next task and would take another two weeks. The structure would be made up of twelve semi-circular ribs mounted vertically and evenly spread to form the skeleton of a large sphere. The ribs had been made of fibreglass and would be held in place with nylon bolts. The various electro-magnets and measuring instruments would be attached to the inside of the ribs. Tom had to dig a small hole in the centre of the large hole already cut in the floor in order to concrete in a central fixing plate for the ribs. This was also made of fibreglass and resembled a large golf tee with an exaggerated large head where the ribs would be bolted. Tom put the sub-soil into a bucket which he passed to the Professor who emptied it into the wheelbarrow that had been left in the building.

  “Hang on a minute, Tom.” The Professor had spotted something glistening in the wheelbarrow, “I think you’ve dug up an old coin.” Tom climbed out of the hole and the pair of them looked at the slightly misshapen coin. The Professor washed it under the tap and carefully dried it with his handkerchief. “Well, well, well.” He said in a studious tone. “I think that this is gold. Look, there is no oxidation at all. Oh and there’s a hole where a chain or cord would have been.” Tom ran across to the work bench and pulled out his magnifying glass from his toolbox. “Let me look James,” he said. Tom carefully examined both sides of the object. “Well it seems to lack any real detail. There’s no head or motif stamped on it and it has been knocked around a bit. There’s some crude writing on one side, looks like S A F or S A T and there could be some numbers or letters on the other side.” He moved closer to the light. “Yep. I reckon that there is an 8 followed by either zero or the letter O and then either a two or a letter Z and then a number 7.”

  “Well,” said the Professor, “it’s not ancient treasure then. Maybe it was a charm with someone’s initials and a date. Perhaps a birthday or anniversary. You might as well keep it Tom. I’m sure it’s not worth handing into the Police or the Army.” Tom slipped the charm into his pocket and carried on digging. After a few trial goes the central fixing plate was set in concrete and an early start to the weekend was agreed. Tom was very pleased as he had quietly been hoping to see Jasmine.

  Tom was on his motorbike and away before midday. The Professor had not organised himself quite so cleverly and had to return to the rented house to collect his suitcase of dirty washing before setting off. Tom did not get far. Just as he stopped at the junction with the A303 another motorcyclist pulled up next to him. “Your number plate has just come off back there,” he said as he pointed behind them. Tom waved a gesture of thanks and went around the roundabout and back up the road he had just travelled down. There, in the middle of the road, was his number plate. Luckily it was not damaged and he was able to retrieve it without being hit by the growing number of early weekenders on the road. He was unable to fix it back on at the side of the road and so he decided that it was most sensible to go the 2 miles back to Larkhill Camp and make a proper repair.

  He parked outside the Dagger building and entered the six digit security code to open the door. He quickly found the self tapping screws to fix the number plate back on but, to his surprise, noticed that his slotted screwdriver was sitting out on the workbench. When he finished making the repair he went to put his screwdriver back in its proper place only to find that he was now in possession of a pair of identical screwdrivers. He had bought the moderately expensive set of six screwdrivers several months earlier. There were no duplicates of any particular size or type. He could not think how this might have come about and sat on the chair next to the work bench whilst he thought it through. Perhaps it had been in the Dagger Building when they moved in. “Impossible,” he thought. Perhaps the extra screwdriver was in the laboratory at Imperial College all the time and it had been swept up with the move; “possibly.” Perhaps the Professor had a similar set of screwdrivers; “quite likely”. After all, the set of screwdrivers had been bought from a delightful old fashioned ironmongers on the Fulham Road, not far from Drayton Gardens. With that little mystery solved, he locked up, made sure his leather jacket was fully zipped up against the cold and resumed his journey to London.

  He could not believe his eyes when he saw the inside of the flat in Elm Park Gardens. Everything was looking so clean and tidy, although Tom’s room had not had the benefit of the makeover. There was fresh floral scent in the air but no flowers to be seen. Instead, there was a plug-in air freshener in the drawing room and the pub-like odours had all but disappeared. Angus emerged from his bedroom having heard Tom arrive. He was clean shaven, had been to the barbers and was wearing a suit that had clearly been to the dry cleaners. “Ah, Tom w-what a surprise. I was beginning to think that you were g-gone for good.”

  “Hello Angus. Gosh you have been busy. Is the Queen doing a visit?” Tom, with his privileged knowledge of his landlord, realised what he had said and he quickly added, “don’t tell me you’ve got a job?” Tom had noticed that despite looking so much more presentable, Angus was shaking and had developed a mild stutter. “N-no. I’ve had a tidy to keep my mind off…” he hesitated, “off the drink.” Tom could sense the relief in Angus’s tone as he mentioned his drinking. “I’ve not had a d-drop since last Sunday. It has been p-pretty tough. The shakes aren’t so bad now. Would you l-like a cup of tea?”

  As they drank their tea, Angus told Tom about his plans. “I’ve got to g-go away for a few weeks. I’ve booked myself into Tynesdale Court in Shropshire t-to get some help. I was ho-hoping that you would drop back here at weekends whilst I’m away.”

  “No problem. Goodness, Tynesdale Court. That’s where the pop stars go. It must be costing an arm and a leg,” said Tom, showing genuine interest in his landlord’s new sense of purpose.

  “I came into a bit of money last week and I know I have to do this. I’ve been there once before when I was in Fleet Street. Anyway, when I g-get sorted out, I’m going to work on a new story that I’ve had in the pipeline for some time. It could be very lucrative.” Angus stared at the bookcase behind Tom. “It may be that I write this story up as a book rather than a newspaper article. Anyway, I’ll sort all that out when I get back and with any luck, I will be g-going flat out within a few months.”

  Tom decided to play amateur detective. “What is your new story about Angus?” he asked.

  “What the best stories are all about – it’s sex, money and p-power but this time I’m pretty sure that the key players are very high up in the Establishment and that, my dear boy, sells stories faster than a w-wink of the eye.” Angus chuckled as he imagined his future success.

  “So it’s a scandal then. Can you give me an idea of the story line?” Tom asked trying to sound casual.

  “Well in a nutshell, it’s about an extra marital affair by a Peer of the Realm and how the bastard child from that relationship grows up never knowing who his father was.” Angus was looking through the open door into his bedroom and his eyes focused on the wardrobe where he kept the only evidence that he had of the whole business.

  Tom was a little shocked at this point as he knew that his friend and boss, Professor Gordon, was a child cursed by having no father. “What has come of the child? Is he someone well known?” he asked.

  “Definitely well known. I’m not certain but I know that he is a well respected m-member of society. I need to do a bit of research to pin him down but I reckon that he is either in government or he is a s-star of radio or TV. Anyway,” he paused and looked around in a furtive gesture of secrecy, “Mum’s the word. This is my pension. Let’s hope he’s a TV star – that will sell, sell, s-sell!”

  What a relief, thought Tom, as he realised that the Professor was not the subject of the story. He did think that he should make contact with Inspector Morton-Farrell to let him know what Angus planned. “When do you go to Tynesdale?”

  Angus put his tea mug down. “Next week, provided the money goes through on time. They want the whole lot up front, nearly £18,000 just for 6 weeks. Still it’s cheaper t
han the Dorchester,” said a man who knew what he was talking about, having stayed there in better times.

  “What do you want me to do about my rent whilst you’re away Angus? I could pay it into a bank account if you like. I’m afraid that I’m not in a position to give you anything up front.”

  “I trust you Tom. Just m-make sure that you can give me the whole lot w-when I get back.” Tom nodded and put down his tea mug. “That was a lovely cup of tea Angus. I’ve got to nip out before the shops shut so I will get cracking if you don’t mind.”

  Tom left and walked westwards along the Fulham Road. As he walked, he pulled out his mobile phone and found the number for Inspector Morton-Farrell. It was after 4pm and, not surprisingly as it was Friday, he ended up leaving a brief message on the answering machine. He wandered along the Fulham Road for a few hundred yards and bought some chocolates for Jasmine. The lady who served him was more than pleased to gift wrap them and she even tied a little red bow on the package to make it look just a little bit more special.

  Jasmine and Tom had arranged to meet at 7 pm at the south entrance to South Kensington Tube Station. Tom was 10 minutes early and checked his reflection in the shop window near the station. Jasmine would be familiar with his “interview” clothes which Tom deemed appropriate for their first date. Jasmine was a few minutes late, not wishing to appear too keen. They had a lovely evening which started with a walk to the Kings Road and supper in one of the many delightful Italian restaurants in the area. Jasmine did not want to be too late home and so Tom escorted her to Waterloo Station in time for a 10 pm train to Woking. Tom was granted a little peck as a goodnight kiss. They beamed at each other through the window of her carriage, both certain that they would see more of each other in the coming weeks.

  The following morning Tom decided to tidy his room and try and match the effort made by Angus. It was lunchtime before he finished the last of the cleaning. He had two huge black plastic bags full of rubbish, a mountain of dirty washing and, under his chair, he had found a £20 note which he deemed to be just reward for his efforts. The afternoon was spent in the launderette which used a large chunk of his new found fortune. Whilst doing the washing, Charlie walked past and spotted Tom through the large window. “Hello Tom. Are you back for long or are you just passing through?” Tom decided to be chatty to the old boy as he had nothing else to do whilst he waited for the various machines to finish creasing his clothes. “Oh, I’m here for the weekend Charlie. How are things with you?” Charlie sat down next to Tom. “Well it’s been the most amazing couple of weeks. I think it was on Tuesday of last week that Angus and I were having a drink together at lunchtime when we decided to have a go on the horses. We put an accumulator on,” Charlie moved closer to Tom and lowered his voice, “and it came in. I had put a £1 bet on and Angus had put a tenner. I won two thousand pounds and so Angus must have made twenty thousand.”

  Tom was fascinated. “You are a dark horse Charlie! I didn’t know you were a gambler.” Charlie looked straight into Tom’s eyes. “There is nothing wrong with the odd bet as long as you know exactly what you are doing. The four horses we bet on at Kempton were Old Timer, Paper Boy, College Lad and Office Girl. Now I thought that they were bound to win because the first three were me, Angus and you and then we add your young lady.” Charlie had the cheekiest smile on his face.

  “Who told you I was going out with Jasmine then?” asked Tom. For once Charlie was lost for words. “Well, I..er..oh, yes Jasmine. I guessed that you would take her out sooner or later. She seemed such a nice young lady when I spoke to her on the telephone.” “Oh,” said Tom, “when did you talk to her then?” Charlie smiled. “Surely you remember that Angus was worried about his rent when you were detained that time.” Tom nodded, “Oh of course.” He stood up to transfer the clothes from the washing machine to the tumble dryer.

  Charlie also stood up. “Tom, would you take this?” He held out his hand in which he had a bundle of twenty pound notes. Tom was flabbergasted. “Charlie, what is this for?” he said. Charlie smiled. “Well it’s simple really. You were not in the pub when Angus and I went to the bookies but I thought of you and put 10p on for you. The old partnership, you know. Please take it.” He moved his hand holding the £200 closer to Tom’s hand. Tom really did not know what to say or do. “Charlie, this is really kind but you must need the money more than me. I’m doing okay with this job and, well…perhaps you should have a treat.” Charlie just stared straight at Tom and Tom took the bundle of notes. “You are so kind Charlie. Thanks.” Charlie hardly waited for Tom to finish. “I must go Tom. I’m late for a date of my own.” He winked and left the launderette and Tom in his state of half shock.

  Tom looked at the money. He carefully straightened out the bundle and placed the notes in his wallet. Tom wanted to go after Charlie but he felt awkward and allowed the washing to form the excuse in his mind that held his leaden feet. The extra money had come at an ideal time as he did not want to appear to be too stingey when he took Jasmine out, but the purchase of the motorcycle and all the paraphernalia had wiped out his savings. When his laundry was finished Tom hurried back to the flat. No sooner had he dumped the laundry bag on his bed when his phone rang. It was Inspector Morton-Farrell. Tom was not sure if Angus was in the flat and so he went to the street to talk to the Inspector. “I’m sorry to disturb your weekend Inspector, I thought that this could wait until Monday.” He said.

  “I said that you should call me ‘Brian’ and don’t worry, I’m doing a bit of work today to catch up. I was away most of the week, fishing. Now tell me what’s on your mind but remember we are on an unsecured telephone line.” The Inspector was in a good mood after his fishing trip.

  Tom told him about his landlord’s plans without giving too much away to any potential eavesdroppers. “Well, my friend that you know has really got a grip of himself and is admitting himself into Tynesdale Court for treatment. He then plans to concentrate on his story about a scandal involving some pretty important people. He says he might make it into a book.”

  “Leave it with me Tom. Do nothing, but obviously let me know if there are any significant developments.” Morton-Farrell ended the call and Tom returned to the flat.

  The following week, Alfred was, as always, busy at his desk in Thames House. He had over 100 unread emails, his telephone was a constant nuisance and his boss was badgering him for a report that was far from finished. If you want a job done well and quickly, then give it to a busy person. There comes a point with most individuals when their brains go into a super conducting state and Alfred was “cruising” as he called it, in just that state. He had prioritised his tasks and cleared the simplest, but most important first. By 4pm he was able to tackle the last few pages of the report and deliver it to his boss. By 6pm he was able to tackle his emails and the dregs of his in-tray would be next. His last three emails were from the tireless, loyal and diligent Cora computer program that was searching, correlating and deriving intelligence from every file and snippet of digital information available to MI5.

  The first of these emails concerned the operation at the centre of the report that he had just delivered to his boss. He smiled as the information that Cora was presenting to him was almost identical to that which he had gathered by more traditional methods for his report. “At least”, he thought, “Cora seems to be quite accurate in her advice.” He pondered, “her?” He decided that Cora sounded like a girl’s name and moved on. The second email was an analysis of the information on Angus Merchant. It really was not at all interesting. The Land Registry link and archive news information from just after the War had produced an address and then names for the mistress and the bastard child. The mother was not related to any dignitary and the bastard child was not a senior member of the Establishment at all, just an ordinary person in an ordinary job. The father of the child could not be identified but Cora had provided some probabilities of him being Ennobled, a member of a Royal House or in Government. Cora also concluded that the
chance of the father still being alive were less than eight percent. The results made any serious chance of a scandal so low that Alfred made the decision there and then to stop all further surveillance on Merchant. Alfred was under pressure to demonstrate areas of saving and he added this action as part of that requirement. He took the necessary steps for Merchant’s file to be closed and he sent an email to Morton-Farrell to tell him that Merchant posed no further threat to the Establishment, Government of the day or society at large. He moved on to his next task and expected to leave for home early, certainly by 9pm.

  Inspector Morton-Farrell read the email the following morning. He took another look at the Special Branch file on Merchant and could see no reason to waste any more effort on the retired journalist. The fact that Tom shared the flat with Merchant did not pose any threat to the MoD project as far as he could see and now that Tom was briefed, he would be careful and so the overall risk was minimal. He picked up his telephone and called Tom. “Thank you again for your diligence at the weekend. We have decided that the risk from your associate is almost non-existent and so, unless there is something obviously outrageous, you should relax. We have no further interest in the man.” Tom was quite relieved. He walked away, out of the Professor’s earshot. “Brilliant. I really hope that Ang…” he stopped himself just in time and used veiled speech, “our friend manages to sort himself out. Can I mention any of this to my boss now?” There was an immediate response. “No. Don’t do that. It is always best to restrict information to those who really need to know and your boss does not need and therefore should not know.” With that the call ended. Tom went back to ‘The Beast’. “Girlfriend again Tom?” asked the Professor. “Oh. Yes. She’s just checking that I’m back in London this weekend.” Tom picked up his screwdriver and continued the assembly.