Authors: Rohan Gavin
K-9 (19 page)
‘You’re saying it’s a cry for help?’ said Tilly.
‘Exactly that,’ replied Darkus. ‘But we have to work out what it is that this creature wants.’
Darkus and his dad traded a perplexed glance.
‘Miss Connelly,’ said Darkus, ‘might I suggest we examine your property for any further clues, at your earliest convenience? Time is short. The next full moon is due tomorrow night.’
Fiona stared quizzically through her granny specs and pursed her lips. ‘Of course, though you’ll have to excuse the state of the house. I wasn’t expecting visitors.’
‘Let’s say 2 p.m. then,’ said Darkus. ‘My father and I need to have a little chat first.’
‘We do?’ asked Knightley, before responding: ‘Of course we do.’
‘Come, Romeo.’ Fiona summoned the retriever, who obediently followed her to the door, where she pulled on her clumping Hunter wellies and a raincoat. ‘See you anon,’ she announced and closed the door behind her.
Knightley waited a few moments before asking Darkus, ‘Well, what d’you think?’
‘A most peculiar development,’ remarked Darkus.
‘A penny for your thoughts,’ his father urged.
‘It’s too early to say,’ replied Darkus. ‘The video appears to be genuine.’
‘I agree,’ said Tilly. ‘There are no pixellation errors, the shadows and reflections look consistent.’
‘But we need to go behind the pixels,’ Darkus pointed out. ‘It’s not about what the footage shows, it’s about what it
doesn’t
show. A site visit may prove fruitful, even if the trail has been cold for so long it’s utterly corrupted.’
Knightley harrumphed. ‘If I’d known Fiona’s case might be related, I would’ve handled it more promptly,’ he complained.
‘ “No clue is so small that it may not be relevant to the whole”,’ said Darkus. ‘I think you wrote that in the Knowledge once.’
‘It seems my powers have been greatly diminished since then,’ moaned his father.
‘Then I can assume, due to your recent “episode”, that you have no memory of who attacked you on the Heath?’ enquired Darkus.
‘None whatsoever,’ he sighed, tapping his head impatiently. ‘It’s locked up, up here in Fort Knox.’
Darkus nodded. ‘Dad, I’m quite certain your attacker was none other than Barabas King.’
‘The crime boss?’ asked Knightley.
‘The very same. And it appears he’s behind the “smart” dog attacks across London.’
‘Then what was he doing roaming the Heath?’ Knightley demanded.
‘I don’t know. But I’m confident that between the two of us –’
‘The
three
of us,’ Tilly interrupted him.
Darkus continued diplomatically. ‘That
between us
, a solution will present itself,’ he declared. ‘But first . . . I’m afraid I have a rather disturbing development of my own to impart.’
Knightley and Tilly waited patiently as Darkus fetched
The
Cranston Star
newspaper from upstairs and related the surprising events that had taken place in the early hours of the morning.
Tilly stared at the inset picture of Alexis, whose blonde tresses rested on her shoulders, next to the word
Exclusive
.
‘That traitor –’
‘Let me see this,’ interjected Knightley, scanning down the front page, reading the account of their investigation on the Heath. ‘This is an unmitigated disaster,’ he whispered.
Tilly wheeled on Darkus. ‘Why didn’t you wake me?’
Darkus shrugged defensively.
‘I’ve got methods, you know. OK, international conventions may have been breached . . . but I get results.’
‘It’s already gone to press,’ said Darkus. ‘Which means it’s already in circulation. Which means we have even less time to contain the situation before the general public get involved.’
‘Well, what do you suggest?’ enquired Knightley.
‘We assemble the facts. Ascertain what was roaming Miss Connelly’s property and how we might track it. And hope it leads to King – before the next phase of the moon.’
‘We’re going to need back-up,’ added Tilly. ‘And I have a feeling I know just the person who can help.’
Meanwhile back at the Lab
Lunch break began and the classroom emptied itself in seconds, leaving the chairs scattered and a general sense of chaos in the pupils’ wake. Miss Khan couldn’t tell if she’d dismissed the class or they’d dismissed her. She noted the absence of Tilly and wondered what the reason was. It could be something as mundane as a case of influenza, or something as exotic as a far-reaching criminal investigation. She had also noted the absence of Darkus – which felt too coincidental by half. The final piece of the puzzle was the dreadful accident that had confined Brendan Doyle to a locked hospital room with as yet undisclosed injuries.
Before she could let her mind wander any further, her mobile phone rang from the pocket of her lab coat. She lifted her square plastic specs and rested them on her jet-black, tied-back hair.
‘Hello?’ she answered the phone hesitantly.
‘Miss Khan?’
‘Tilly, is that you?’ she asked, surprised. ‘How did you get my mobile number?’
‘Never mind how I got it,’ replied Tilly. ‘We need your assistance with something.’
‘Who’s we?’ Miss Khan enquired, more than a little flustered. ‘Has this got something to do with why you weren’t in class?’
‘Have you read
The
Cranston Star
this morning?’
‘No, I believe my copy’s waiting for me in the staffroom. Along with my lunch,’ she said impatiently.
‘I suggest you have a look at the front page. I might as well tell you: Darkus and I are on a case.’
‘Well . . .’ she faltered. ‘Have the police been informed?’
‘They called
us
.’
‘
Well
. . .’ She struggled to find a suitable response. ‘Has it got anything to do with what happened to poor Brendan Doyle?’
The line went silent for a moment. ‘Yes,’ Tilly managed. ‘Yes, it has. Miss Khan, I’m going to cut to the chase. Are you able to come up with a device capable of generating a frequency that’s only audible to canines?’
‘You’re talking about a dog whistle.’
‘A high-tech version of a dog whistle, yes. Something that could theoretically disorient, or even incapacitate, a dog. Or a wolf.’
‘A
wolf
?’
‘Yes or no?’ insisted Tilly.
‘Why, yes of course, in theory.’
‘Can you come up with a functioning prototype by the next full moon?’
‘That’s tomorrow evening!’
‘Correct.’
Miss Khan raised her eyebrows and her plastic specs inadvertently dropped back into place on the bridge of her nose. ‘Well, I’ll see what I can do.’
‘You’re a lifesaver. Quite literally. And one more thing . . .’
‘Yes, Tilly?’ Miss Khan wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of orders, but she had to admit she found the whole thing strangely enthralling.
‘Do you have any idea about the relative velocity of silver bullets?’
Miss Khan’s eyes went even wider behind her specs.
The Mirror
Crime boss Barabas King strode across the warehouse floor towards his own reflection. He’d moved between so many locations he barely remembered which warehouse it was, or where in the city he was, or where he’d been. Maybe the doctors had been right: maybe he really had detached from reality. A ‘psychotic break’, they had called it. He approached the shard of mirror hanging on the wall and stared deeply into it. Then he smiled wide, baring his sharpened, fang-like teeth.
Someone had once told him that if you stared at yourself in a mirror for long enough you’d be able to see all your past lives pass before your eyes. As King gazed intently into his own unusually small irises, he thought perhaps that someone had been right. Perhaps he shouldn’t have killed that someone after all. They may have had more to offer on other subjects too. He ran his fingers over the rough stubble developing on his cheeks, chin and neck – thick hairs which threatened to poke through the skin and reveal the animal within.
As he continued to gape at his reflection, a long shadow appeared behind him on the wall, accompanied by a stammering male voice.
‘Th-they’re on to us,’ the voice faltered. ‘She’s threatening our operation.’
King’s face clouded over. ‘Fiona’s playing with fire . . .’ he hissed. ‘What d’you want me to do about it, Underwood?’ he spat the villain’s name out.
The long shadow drew closer, getting larger.
King snarled and continued to stare into his own eyes, until the stammering voice spoke again, more insistently.
‘You work for the Combination . . . Don’t f-f-fail me, King.’
The B-Team
Clive exited the dual carriageway, pulled up to the Little Chef restaurant and parked the Jag badly, taking up two spaces. He opened the door and several used, plastic coffee cups fell out on to the tarmac. Clive ignored them and slammed the door, further dislodging the wing mirror, which hung at an unnatural angle due to a recent collision with an old lady driving a compact car. Clive’s insurance company found him liable, but Clive firmly believed the old lady must have used bribery or some other form of persuasion (cakes perhaps) in order to turn the case against him.
He cursed her as he lumbered across the car park, then momentarily forgot who he was supposed to be meeting in the first place. He racked his brain and realised yet again how impaired his ‘facilities’ were since that disastrous encounter with the bestselling book,
The Code
, and its evil, hypnotic mastermind, Morton Underwood. Clive daily tried to shake off the memory of those insane events, but they still seemed to rattle around in his head like so many loose nuts and bolts.
He continued towards the entrance, passing a police Vauxhall parked subtly behind a heavy goods vehicle, and suddenly remembered the purpose of his visit.
He pushed through the heavy glass doors with the confidence of a cowboy entering his local saloon. He adjusted the trousers of his shell suit and nodded to the frail waitress at the counter. She managed a weak wave in return. Clive glanced over the booths, which were mostly empty, except for a few lorry drivers and a man in a slightly ill-fitting suit whose face was buried behind a menu at the far corner of the restaurant.
Clive ambled down the aisle, nodding to the chef, who didn’t acknowledge him and carried on idly flipping burgers. As Clive arrived at the corner table, the man in the suit looked up from his menu, inspected him covertly and gestured to the seat opposite.
‘Sorry I kept you waiting, Inspector,’ said Clive.
‘
Chief
Inspector,’ replied Draycott, nervously playing with his moustache. ‘And keep your voice down.’
Draycott was still smarting from his last encounter with Clive Palmer, which had left the unfortunate inspector with a broken nose and a concussion after foolishly intervening in a life-and-death struggle between Clive and his unusual stepson, Darkus, in the bathroom of Wolseley Close. Draycott never did get to the bottom of exactly what had caused Clive to have his psychotic ‘benny’. Charges were never pressed, although there were chuckles and Chinese whispers at the police station about Draycott’s humiliating fall from grace.
Draycott deduced that Clive’s odd behaviour had something to do with the man’s own fall from grace, his controversial departure from the TV programme
Wheel Spin
and his long stay in a trauma clinic, in Staffordshire apparently. And so it was with some trepidation that Draycott agreed to a surreptitious meet-up at this roadside eatery. In fact the only reason he’d even considered it was because Clive promised new information on Draycott’s long-time nemesis, the dangerously strange private eye, Alan Knightley. Clive may have been an unlikely ally, but when it came to Knightley, Draycott would take his allies where he could get them. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.
And besides, maybe they both had something to prove.
‘What can I get you, gentlemen?’ the frail waitress enquired, her hands shaking as she waited with her pen poised over her notepad.
‘A cup of tea and the Works Burger,’ answered Draycott precisely.
‘Make that two,’ added Clive. ‘And the Monster Nachos please, Doreen.’
‘Coming up,’ she replied buoyantly, then limped off towards the kitchen.
Draycott wrinkled his moustache impatiently. ‘Well, Clive? Gimme what you got.’ He gestured with his hand.
Clive slid a rolled-up newspaper out of his shell suit and unfolded it on the table.
‘
Cranston Star
. Breaking news. Read all about it,’ Clive announced.
Draycott snatched up the paper and read the front page. He began massaging his moustache feverishly. ‘
Knightley
. . .’ he whispered.