The Werewolf of Wottenham Wood

by Rupert Harker

  Ulysses scratched his chin thoughtfully. “If one had the correct equipment, it may be theoretically possible to generate a micro black hole which could drag someone across a room.”

  “What sort of equipment?”

  “One would need a particle accelerator that stretches all the way to Alpha Centauri and back.”

  “Hmm,” murmured Fairfax. “I think we can exclude that as a likely hypothesis.

  Ulysses spent the remainder of the evening waxing lyrical about black holes, subatomic particles and other mumbo-jumbo, while Fairfax nodded and pretended to understand, and I drank vodka and pretended to be sober until we all returned to Ulysses cottage, where I collapsed unconscious upon the sofa, not awakening until about three in the morning with a pounding head and wearing Ulysses’ cat, Ajax, as a balaclava.

  ◆◆◆

  12. A Slippery Piglet

  Monday, 8th January 2007

  First thing Monday morning, I telephoned St Clifford’s Hospital and spoke to my senior colleague, Dr Carlton “Beefy” Stockford.

  “Morning Beefy.”

  “Rupert! How goes it?”

  “So-so. I need to extend my leave of absence, I’m afraid. Things seem to be a little murky this week.”

  “Really? Do tell. Has Fairfax dragged you into another one of his bizarre capers?”

  “Indeed he has, Beefy. A most disturbing affair.” I recounted the sordid details of recent events.

  “Good Heavens. It all sounds terribly exciting. I wish I could come and join you, but the mortuary is overflowing back here. It’s standing room only.”

  “Can you manage without me for a few more days?”

  “Of course, Rupert, of course. You can tell me all about it next week.”

  “Good show, Beefy! Thanks a bunch.”

  “Don’t mention it. Must fly. I’m due at the Old Bailey at ten. TTFN.”

  I joined the Urban-Smiths in the kitchen for breakfast. Fairfax was delighted that I had elected to remain in situ.

  “We have much to do,” said he. “We are only beginning to come to grips with this slippery piglet of a case.”

  “Slippery piglet?”

  “Slippery piglet,” clarified Fairfax. “Tangled web. Sticky wicket. Murky broth.

  “Oh, I see.”

  There came a plaintive, ‘bleep-bleep’ from Fairfax’s mobile telephone, and he reached into his pocket to retrieve it. “It is a text from Inspector Mallow. We are to liaise with him and DCI Arsolé in an hour to compare notes.”

  “I shall contact Gibson forthwith,” I said. “Perhaps he will have some preliminary blood results.”

  Dr Steinway was delighted to receive my call. “Rupert,” he roared. “Grand to hear from you.”

  “Ditto,” said I. “Any news.”

  “Yes, indeed. The vitreous glucose levels were forty-three-point-four.”

  “Good Lord. Any ketones?”

  “Yes,” he confirmed. “Seventy-eight-point-six. The beta-hydroxybutyrate isn’t back yet, but I suspect it to confirm ketoacidosis.”

  “Could you text me the result when it comes back?”

  “Will do, Rupert.”

  “Thanks Gibson. Cheerio.” I terminated the call. “It appears,” I announced, “that Adam Upstart died due to a high blood sugar.” I explained the mechanism by which a high blood sugar causes the breakdown of muscles, the release of toxic ketones, and the turning of the blood to acid.

  “It sounds like a ghastly death,” lamented Ulysses.

  “Mercifully not,” I reported. “Although the initial symptoms can be rather frightful, the victim ultimately falls into a coma. Those who receive prompt treatment and recover usually remember little of their ordeal after losing consciousness.”

  “What would have caused it?”

  “Well,” I replied. “Many things can precipitate it. Failure to administer insulin in a timely manner, consuming an excessive level of sugar or carbohydrates, illness, infection, strenuous physical activity, stress. The list goes on.”

  “Surely strenuous activity would burn glucose, not raise it,” suggested Fairfax.

  “When you exert yourself,” I explained, “your body releases glucose to fuel your muscles. In the absence of insulin, this glucose remains in the blood rather than being pulled into the muscles where it is required. Stress has the same effect.”

  “And this diabetic coma will have come upon Adam Upstart suddenly and without warning?”

  “Well…. no, actually.” I rubbed at my chin. “It usually comes on gradually and is accompanied by lethargy, nausea, blurred vision and poor concentration. A mere prick of the finger would have alerted him to the impending danger. He had all the kit and plenty of insulin.” I pondered further. “The more I consider it, the more curious it becomes. The autopsy showed no evidence of serious illness, and his blood glucose monitor, sharps bin and spare needles were all laid out on his table. I recall them vividly.”

  “So, what do you think happened?” prompted Fairfax.

  “I cannot say. There is insufficient information from which to draw a conclusion.”

  “Excellent, Rupert,” he cried, clapping his hands. “We shall make a detective of you yet.”

  *

  Ulysses was kind enough to drop us at Scragnell Police Station on his way to work, and we presented ourselves to the front desk. We were directed to DCI Arsolé’s office, where he and Inspector Mallow where waiting for us.

  Greetings were exchanged, and we got straight down to brass tacks. I explained the findings of Adam Upstart’s autopsy and blood tests, and voiced my concerns about his failure to moderate his rising sugar levels.

  “How long does it take for somebody to die in a diabetic coma?” asked DCI Arsolé.

  “I’m not entirely sure, but I would guess between six and twenty-four hours. In Adam Upstart’s case, his rectal temperature indicated a time of death of around nine a.m.”

  “This is deeply disturbing,” said Arsolé rubbing his forehead with a knuckle. “The man has been locked in a windowless room with only one way in or out, behind a sturdy oak door. We have evidence that shows him dragged across the floor and restrained or incapacitated until his blood sugar rises to a level sufficient to induce coma and then death. Our main suspect has a strong alibi, and there is no evidence of violence or poisoning.” He turned to Urban-Smith. “Can you explain it?”

  “With the limited evidence available, I can only speculate.” Urban -Smith withdrew a pad and paper from his pocket and began scribbling. “Please pardon my doodling, but by engaging the creative right side of the brain, the logical left side can process information unimpaired.” He continued to scratch at the pad.

  “We have three victims of what appears to be an animal attack. The creature in question weighs around two hundred kilograms, has three legs which are wrapped in cloth or fabric, and uses a walking stick or crutch to aid its balance. Dr Harker is our only witness, and he reports that the creature bears fur, so is evidently mammalian. This description is compatible with that of Tripod Jack, the three legged werewolf, although the presence of a large, heavy tail is more reminiscent of a marsupial than a canid.

  “The local populace believe that Tripod Jack has returned, and our last victim, Adam Upstart, is a Tripod Jack obsessive who has been manhandled and menaced whilst attempting to summon Jack’s spirit in his basement. The logical conclusion would be that Adam Upstart has succeeded in summoning this spirit to his basement, whereupon it has broken free from the confines of the summoning circle and wreaked havoc upon him, and now dwells in Wottenham Woods.”

  The response was silence.

  Urban-Smith shrugged. “I know that it is far-fetched, but at the present time, I have no better explanation.”

  “There is a press conference scheduled for tomorrow morning,” lamented Inspector Mallow. “We can hardly announce the involvement of werewolves and spirits in these deaths.”

  “I quite agree, Inspector, and for now I would suggest that we keep
our theories within these four walls.”

  “I have a question,” said I. “If Adam Upstart was attacked by the same beast as Vic Timone and Edna Clearing, why did it leave no footprints on the dusty cellar floor?”

  “When one summons a demon or spirit,” Urban-Smith explained, “one reaches out, not to its Earthly form, but to its essence, its extracorporeal form. This is the form that a spirit or demon holds in the netherworld; only when it is summoned to our world is it forced to adopt a palpable physical presence.”

  “And in this case, our demon has chosen to adopt the form of a thirty-stone, three-legged, arthritic kangaroo?”

  “A demon cannot choose its Earthly form any more than you or I.” Urban-Smith ceased his doodling and returned his notebook to his pocket. “I am not suggesting that this is the only possible explanation for what has happened, but it does neatly fit the facts currently laid before us. As we uncover more evidence, our theories will evolve.”

  “I hope so,” said Inspector Mallow, “or tomorrow’s press conference may prove to be my swan-song.”

  “Is there any sign of the third victim?” I asked.

  “Not yet, Doctor.”

  “I wonder if I might please have permission to peruse any police files regarding the Upstart brothers,” said Urban-Smith. “I would also like the opportunity to question the other members of Mr Upstart’s band.”

  “PC Worthy will be collecting statements today. Would you care to accompany her?”

  “Indeed we would, Inspector. Indeed we would.”

  ◆◆◆

  13. Corpus Delicious

  We immediately liaised with PC Worthy, and our first port of call was the office of the band’s agent, a Miss Rosetta Stone. The office was located above an estate agent’s in the centre of Cambridge and accessed via a set of stone steps just adjacent to the building’s main entrance.

  Miss Stone herself was a tall, willowy thirty-something woman with dyed blonde hair, too much makeup, and a severe grey power suit. She appeared rather subdued as she led us through to her office and indicated for each of us to take a seat.

  Her desk was polished glass and uncluttered other than a desk diary and desktop computer. Upon the walls were framed tour posters and pictures of the band both on stage and off. Clearly, The Wolves were her main clients, and Adam Upstart’s death would hit her where it hurt; in the purse.

  Urban-Smith and I were introduced, and sat in silence as PC Worthy commenced the interview, efficiently blazing a path through the preliminary, “what was your relation to’s?” and “where were you on the night of’s?”

  The meat and gravy of it was that Miss Stone had been the band’s agent for six years after being approached by Adam Upstart. The original singer had moved north, and Adam Upstart had volunteered his services, having learnt of the vacant situation from his brother, Cain, who had been at school with Darren Forshaw, the guitarist.

  Adam Upstart had quickly made his mark upon the band, becoming their primary songwriter and, most crucially, insisting that the band change its name from Undying Steel Puppies, to The Werewolves of Wottenham Wood. The band’s sound changed from progressive hard rock to thrash metal, and Ethan cast the lyrical tone a deep dark black with songs about murder, necrophilia and cannibalism.

  Over the next few years, they had won several prestigious music awards, and gone from strength to strength, most recently signing a five album deal with Horsefly Music Ltd for one-point-five million pounds. There was even talk of the band relocating to Los Angeles.

  Miss Stone was unable to praise Adam Upstart highly enough. “He was such an amazing artist,” she gushed. “He could reach right into your soul with his music.” A tear formed at the corner of her eye. “It’s such a loss. I just can’t believe it.”

  “Moving to the States is a big step. Were they keen?”

  “Adam was. The others, not so much.” Rosetta Stone leaned forward and lowered her voice. “Between you and me, I think Adam was ready to move on to a solo career. Adam had a real future, but the rest of them…?” She shrugged. “They were holding him back.”

  “What of Adam’s personal habits?” asked PC Worthy.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Drugs, women, alcohol?”

  Miss Stone pondered for a few seconds, clearly not wishing to incriminate herself or her late client. We waited for her to gather her thoughts.

  “You’re aware of course that Adam had diabetes?” said she, and we nodded in unison. “He wasn’t very good at looking after himself,” she continued. “He liked to drink and smoke. I understand that he played the field, but nothing unusual for a young man of means.”

  “We found marijuana in the vicinity of his body,” said PC Worthy. “Did Mr Upstart use any other drugs?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps.”

  “Miss Stone.” Urban-Smith plastered a benign grin on his face in an attempt to appear soothing. “How was Mr Upstart’s relationship with his brother, Cain?”

  Miss Stone’s nostrils flared and her brow furrowed. Clearly the Upstart pedestal held only enough standing room for the one brother.

  “Adam was a generous man. He allowed Cain to live at the house, rent free.”

  “But did they get along?” Urban-Smith persisted. “Did they squabble?”

  “All siblings squabble, Mr Urban-Smith.”

  “Did they squabble about anything in particular?”

  She pursed her lips and folded her arms. “Cain is jealous. He’s jealous of Adam’s talent and success. Adam is… was everything that Cain isn’t; kind, generous, creative, gentle. Cain is a brute.” She leaned forward. “You know he’s been arrested before, don’t you; for hitting women and for peddling drugs to schoolchildren. It wouldn’t surprise me if he were a rapist and a paedophile too.”

  “Was he supplying Adam with drugs?”

  Miss Stone’s cheeks burned so scarlet that the colour peeked through her thick rouge. “You’d have to ask him now, wouldn’t you?”

  “Did Adam have any enemies?”

  “All successful men have enemies; or at least dangerous admirers.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Adam’s songs dealt with very dark subjects. He sang of death, mutilation and murder. Inevitably he was going to attract a few disturbed individuals. At one time, he had several stalkers creeping around, and he had to fence off several acres to keep them away from the house.”

  “Did that work?”

  “Well,” said Miss Stone, “I believe that Cain may have incentivised some of the more persistent offenders.”

  “I can well believe it,” said I. “He does have something of the pit bull about him.”

  “Did Adam Upstart have any interest in black magic or the occult?” asked PC Worthy.

  “Adam was fascinated with the darker side of human nature. He loved to write about death, sex, violence and fear, but he was a wonderful person. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  I don’t believe that I had ever seen somebody holding aloft such a massive torch; more akin to a flame thrower, in fact. It seemed most unlikely that we would succeed in eliciting any realistic impression of the deceased or his habits.

  Urban-Smith was clearly of the same opinion, and moved to draw the meeting to a terminus. “So,” he asked, “what now for The Wolves?”

  “A greatest hits album, a couple of biographies, an album of B sides, and then I’m afraid it’s the end for The Wolves.”

  “Surely,” said I, “they could find another singer and carry on.”

  “Ha!” Miss Stone snorted. “You know those little birds that pick the leftovers from between a crocodile’s teeth?”

  “I do.”

  “Now they have no crocodile.”

  *

  PC Worthy drove us south towards Wottenham, where the other three band members resided.

  “What do you make of it all, PC Worthy?” asked Urban-Smith, ever curious regarding the abilities of his colleagues.

  “I think that M
iss Stone’s interest in The Wolves begins and ends with Adam Upstart. It’s as if the other band members don’t exist.” She tutted. “I remember going to see them playing in local pubs and clubs before I left school. They were better before Adam joined. You could rock out to the music then. Now it’s just a bloody awful racket.”

  “Did you know The Wolves at school?” I asked.

  “No. I went to St Wendy’s in Little Cuthberton.”

  “We could do with learning a little more about the man and his craft,” suggested Urban-Smith. “Is there somewhere I can purchase one of his symphonies?”

  “Of course. I’ll swing by one of the shopping centres. They all have music shops; if you can call it music.”

  *

  After our minor detour, we made good time into Wottenham. There was a light drizzle and blustery north-westerly winds, but the temperature was rising, and I was glad that I had elected not to wear my long johns. PC Worthy parked the patrol car behind a rather tatty block of flats, and we made our way up to the fourth floor, where Darren Forshaw was expecting us. He showed us through to the living room, which smelled of cigarette smoke, and I spied several empty beer cans neatly stacked on the sideboard.

  Forshaw was a slender, pale young man with brown eyes and wavy, light brown hair. He wore a plain T-shirt and jeans, and evidently had not shaved for several days. He invited us to squeeze onto the narrow sofa while he sat in an armchair across from us, leaning forward attentively. Introductions were made, drinks were offered and declined, and the interview commenced.

  “Do you know why we’re here?” asked PC Worthy.

  “Yeah.” Forshaw nodded solemnly. “Cain told me all about it.”

  “Can you tell us where you were between eleven o’clock Friday night and two o’clock the next morning?”

  “I was here, drinking and playing Xbox with Cain. We crashed out at about three, and he went home about lunchtime.”

  “Any other witnesses?” asked PC Worthy.