Five Seconds to Doomsday

by Simon Cheshire

  Part of the vast floorspace was occupied by long, machinery-covered benches, at which rows of people were sorting DVDs into piles, or filling padded envelopes ready to mail out. Most of the rest was filled, floor to ceiling, with chunky metal racking, on which were stacked thousands of crates, boxes and cartons. Forklift trucks buzzed about, orange warning lights flashing on top of them. Just visible, right at the far end of the warehouse, was a line of trucks parked in front of a series of big, roll-up metal doors.

  ‘This is where items like books and DVDs get processed and despatched,’ explained Mr Pratt, raising his voice above the din. He suddenly snapped his fingers and pointed to a forklift that was gliding close by, ferrying a pallet piled with cardboard boxes. It set the pallet down by the nearest bench, where a spotty-faced worker started unloading the boxes.

  ‘Ah, perfect timing!’ cried Mr Pratt, hurrying us across to the bench. I saw that the cardboard boxes each had a video game cover sticky-taped over them. Printed on the covers, in drippy, blood-red letters was March of the Zombies 3 – The Undead are BACK, and this time they’re IN A RIGHT STROP!

  ‘Right then, Geoff,’ said Mr Pratt, ‘when did these arrive?’

  ‘’Bout ten minutes ago,’ sniffed the spotty-faced worker. ‘Len wants me to check ’em and store ’em down here. He’s hoping the discs get found soon, then we can get cracking and still make the delivery deadline next week.’

  ‘These two lads here,’ said Mr Pratt, ‘are from St Ethel’s School. They’re doing a project called Interesting Thoughts of a Committee. Nothing to do with the stolen games.’

  ‘H’lo.’ Geoff nodded at us.

  I groaned to myself. Mr Pratt led us away, in the direction of the trucks.

  ‘Is it usual for you to have to package-up video games like that?’ I asked.

  ‘No, we only need to do it now and again,’ said Mr Pratt. ‘Normally, games come in fully packaged, in their cases, with covers, and so on. But there was a shocking mix-up on March of the Zombies 2. All the covers of the overseas editions got mistranslated as March of the Poo-Poo-Bum-Bums. That’s why the software company is being extra careful about everything this time. All the overseas covers are being printed and checked separately.’

  ‘But the discs are coming from China?’ I said.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Mr Pratt. ‘They’re all being made at a factory in Shanghai. That stolen truck-load was a special order.’

  ‘What was special about it?’ I asked.

  ‘March of the Zombies 3 is being released in this country three months ahead of the rest of the world,’ Luke replied.

  ‘Why?’ I said.

  ‘Dunno,’ said Luke. ‘Some sales gimmick, I guess. Gamers can’t wait to get their hands on it.’

  ‘So the stolen discs are the only copies of the game that currently exist?’ I said.

  ‘For the time being, yes,’ agreed Mr Pratt. ‘Right then, here we are, here’s part of our fleet of vehicles.’

  We’d arrived at the line of parked trucks. There must have been at least two dozen of them. Some were quite small, but some were giant, road-hogging lorries with wheels as tall as the average car. As we stood there, another one pulled up at the far end of the row, with a hiss of brakes and a roar of its engine.

  One of the medium-sized trucks instantly caught my attention. It looked quite new, but was road-grubby A manky-looking toy mouse was tied to its radiator grille.

  ‘A-ha!’ I cried. ‘You don’t have to be a brilliant schoolboy detective like me to spot the vital clue here. Notice the mud pressed into the tyres, which have the same pattern as the tracks left in the field. And [sniff, sniff] the mud smells the same as that field, too. Yes, I can definitely say without a shadow of a doubt that this is the truck which was used to transport the discs.’

  ‘No, it’s this one over here,’ called Mr Pratt, from further down the line of vehicles.

  ‘Oh,’ I said quietly. I scurried over to the correct truck. Ah, apparently all Dales’ medium-sized trucks were, umm, the same model, er, and they used the, er, same type of tyres. Easy mistake, a-hem a-hem.

  The correct truck was a little older and even more in need of a wash. The mud on its tyres smelled the same, though.

  ‘The police examined it in detail,’ said Mr Pratt, ‘but they found no lead on where the discs might have gone.’

  We took a good look inside the truck and around the driver’s cabin, but I found nothing unexpected or unusual. I was feeling disappointed as Mr Pratt led Luke and me back to the depot’s offices. I’d been hoping that an examination of the truck would turn up one or two clues.

  As we walked away from the long line of vehicles, I happened to glance back. All the trucks were dusty and grimy from use, but only those two medium-sized ones had muddy tyres. I pulled my notebook from my pocket and jotted down an observation.

  In contrast to the warehouses, the main office at Dales was unusually cosy. Two secretaries were tapping away on computers at one end of the long, rectangular room. At the other end, in front of a broad window which overlooked the depot, was a larger desk which was occupied by a timid-looking man wearing a suit which didn’t suit him. The office was warm and carpeted, and around the walls were various charts and paper-dotted noticeboards.

  ‘Right then, Stephen,’ said Mr Pratt to the timid-looking man as he ushered us into the room, ‘these two lads with me here are the boys from St Elsie’s School I said were visiting. They’re doing a project on Invertebrate Things on a Calculator.’

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ said Stephen Dale, standing up and shaking our hands.

  Mr Pratt stepped forward and spoke to Stephen Dale in a low voice. ‘They’re not investigating those stolen games, or anything like that,’ he said, wagging a finger.

  Stephen chuckled. ‘Well, no, you’re hardly likely to find a schoolboy investigating a serious crime, now, are you?’

  We all had a good laugh about that one, ha ha ha. Quickly, I said, ‘You’ve got a very impressive place here, Mr Dale. How do you keep track of it all?’

  ‘It’s all controlled from my computer, right here on my desk,’ said Stephen. ‘Every movement of every vehicle, and every item on every shelf out in the warehouses, gets listed and catalogued by me personally.’

  At that moment, Len Dale entered the office. He was tall and bald, with a hawkish, wrinkled face. He was clearly having a bad day. I wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that his suit was even worse than Stephen’s.

  ‘Hi Dad,’ said Stephen. ‘These are our visitors from St Ermintrude’s School. They’re doing a project on Invisible Things in a Cauliflower.’

  ‘Good to see you, boys,’ said Len Dale, his face less cheery than his words. ‘We like to do our bit for the community. Although the way things have been going, I’m rapidly starting to re-think that idea.’

  ‘I’m giving them a tour,’ said Mr Pratt. ‘They’re not investigating those missing games.’

  Len Dale snorted. ‘I almost wish they were. The police don’t seem to be making any progress with that jailbird Lyndon. Any news, Steve?’

  ‘No, sorry, Dad,’ said Stephen glumly. ‘I called them earlier and they’re still questioning him. They’ll have to let him go some time tomorrow if no evidence turns up or he doesn’t confess.’

  Len sighed, shaking his head in dismay. ‘You place your trust in someone, you try to help them out, and they stab you in the back.’ He suddenly winced. ‘Ohh! Talking of backs, mine’s still killing me.’

  ‘That’ll be stress, that will,’ said Mr Pratt. ‘It’s been hurting you since this robbery came to light, yes? Stress does terrible damage to the human body, you know.’

  Len turned to me and Luke. ‘Boys, you’ll have to forgive us, this is a difficult time for Dales. Clearly, our Mr Pratt has told you why that is, but I do hope your project will include all the positive aspects of our business instead. I expect you’ll want to interview me now? I see you’ve got a notebook there, son.’

 
I glanced at Luke. ‘Er, yes, right, definitely,’ I said.

  Len Dale launched himself into a speech, like an ocean liner being launched on a trans-Atlantic voyage. ‘I started this company thirty-two years ago,’ he began. ‘All I had in those days was a tin shack and a wheelbarrow . . . Are you writing this down? . . . A tin shack, a wheelbarrow and a love of road transport . . .’

  Two hours later, I arrived back home. I had a slight headache and seventeen pages of almost-useless notes on Len Dale’s love of road transport.

  A Page From My Notebook

  (One that’s not about road transport.)

  OBSERVATION: Why did those TWO trucks have identical mud on their tyres? None of the other trucks’ tyres were muddy. Were BOTH of them in that field? Or is the mud on the other truck simply a coincidence?

  Thinking back to Len’s earlier comment about trust: A question now occurs to me – why was Peter Lyndon sent to pick up those discs and not one of the other drivers? That was a vitally important job. Peter Lyndon had only recently been hired and had a criminal history. Whatever Len Dale might say, would he really trust Lyndon THAT much? So soon? I’M SURE THIS IS SIGNIFICANT!

  Note to self: Must buy a new notebook. This one’s nearly full of notes on road transport.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  JUST AFTER BREAKFAST THE FOLLOWING day, I got a phone call from Luke. He said his mum had been driving past Dales at about nine thirty p.m. the night before, and had seen a light on in the office. I said I’d make a note of it, but it was probably just Len or Stephen working late.

  I was wrong. Five minutes later, Luke called me again. He said his friend’s dad, Mr Pratt, had just let him know that the Dales depot had been broken into overnight. I asked what had been taken. Even before Luke replied, I knew the answer: every last box with a cover for March of the Zombies 3. I shut my eyes and groaned.

  The thieves were stepping up their plans! Everything they needed to sell March of the Zombies 3 was entirely in their hands now.

  That morning ended up divided into three short visits.

  VISIT No. 1: Izzy’s house.

  Izzy was in her ultra-girlie, disco-coloured room. She swung around in her chair to face me, as I slumped awkwardly on to a beanbag. She brandished a set of computer print-outs.

  ‘What have you found?’ I asked, slowly toppling over to one side.

  ‘Something very interesting,’ replied Izzy. She plucked out a sheet of paper with a flick of her multi-ringed fingers. ‘Dales is in big money trouble. They have been for a while.’

  ‘Really?’ I said, feeling my bottom sink lower and lower into the beanbag. ‘They seemed pretty busy.’

  ‘Not nearly as busy as they should be,’ said Izzy. ‘If you’d paid more attention to world news, you’d know that lots of businesses, big and small, are having a tough time right now. I’ve found articles from various sources which say Dales has got a major cash flow problem.’

  ‘What’s cash flow?’ I asked.

  She did that sarcastic arched-eyebrow-thing she does. (I can’t duplicate it. If I try, I just look a bit startled.)

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ I said, ‘should pay more attention to the news, blah blah – what’s cash flow?’

  ‘Well, put it like this,’ said Izzy, ‘when you’re running a business, it’s no good knowing you’ve got work coming in next month, if you need money to pay bills today. You have to make sure a certain minimum amount of money keeps coming into your business, just to keep the lights on, buy paper clips, all the basic stuff.’

  ‘And Dales doesn’t have enough money coming in?’ I said.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So this robbery could really hurt them.’

  ‘Well, yes and no,’ replied Izzy. ‘Yes, because that software company isn’t very likely to use Dales’ services again. No, because Dales will almost certainly be insured against a crime like this.’

  ‘How does that work?’ I asked.

  ‘Dales will have an insurance policy which will pay up if one of their deliveries is stolen or damaged. The software company will get the money that Dales would have owed them for all those discs, but it’ll come from the insurance company.’

  ‘So Dales’ money problems won’t get worse because of this robbery,’ I said.

  ‘Correct,’ said Izzy. ‘Which is lucky, because otherwise they might have had to close down. Do you want to hear another interesting fact I’ve dug up?’

  ‘Yup,’ I said, gradually sliding off the beanbag and on to the fluffy carpet.

  The software company, Bomb-Blast Games, is also having money problems. March of the Zombies 3 is set to be their biggest game for years, but according to some of the internet gaming sites, they’re having trouble raising enough cash to actually make the discs.’

  ‘Ah!’ I cried. ‘That must be why they’re releasing March of the Zombies 3 in this country first. They need to sell as many as they can here so they can use the cash to make enough copies for the rest of the world.’

  ‘Could be,’ said Izzy.

  I was now almost flat out on the floor. I struggled to my feet, and made a mental note to bring a chair with me next time.

  ‘Thanks, Izzy,’ I said. ‘Gotta dash. See if you can find anything about where the stolen discs might turn up.’

  ‘Will do,’ said Izzy, doing a pretend salute.

  VISIT No. 2: Peter Lyndon’s house

  Having no real evidence against him, the police were going to have to let Peter Lyndon go home. I’d arranged to meet Luke outside Lyndon’s house before that happened, in case there were any clues to be had.

  ‘But the cops searched the house when they arrested him,’ said Luke, as our bikes slowed to a stop opposite a well-kept row of plain-fronted, 1970s-style houses. ‘They didn’t find anything.’

  ‘They also thought the truck had been unloaded in that field,’ I said. ‘And they were wrong about that. I just want to gauge the size of Lyndon’s house. We still have no idea where those hundreds of boxes are being stored.’

  All along the street, the houses were arranged in pairs, like flipped-back-and-forth mirror images. Each had a large garage jutting out at the side. The houses themselves were quite small, but the garages were very broad – almost as wide as the houses – and taller than the average.

  I gave Luke a hmm-there’s-an-obvious-possibility look.

  ‘Oh, don’t be daft,’ he spluttered. ‘Surely the police checked the garage? Anyway, Lyndon’s innocent! Those discs can’t possibly be in there!’

  We crossed the road and walked up the short, paved driveway in front of the garage. It was securely locked.

  ‘I’m sure the police did check this garage,’ I said. ‘But I still want to check it myself.’

  I got down on my hands and knees. I pressed my face against the driveway’s surface so that I could peep into the two-centimetre gap under the bottom of the swing-up garage door.

  A cold breeze stung at my eye. It took a few moments to adjust to the gloom inside, but I could soon tell that – apart from a few gardening tools – the garage was empty.

  Or was it?

  ‘There’s something on the floor,’ I said, my voice squished from the peculiar angle my face was at. ‘Scattered near this door. Looks like some pieces of paper, and something else, too.’

  I poked my fingers into the gap. I couldn’t reach very far, but the corner of the nearest sheet of paper was just touchable with my middle finger. I scraped at it carefully, pressing as hard as I could to get a grip.

  Little by little, the paper shifted. I kept stopping to take another look into the gap. The paper was pulling some other stuff with it.

  After a few minutes, the edge of a glossy white sheet slid into view. Delicately, so I didn’t dislodge the stuff that was sitting on top of it, I pulled at the paper.

  ‘Got it!’ I cried.

  What had been on top of the paper were three CD-sized plastic discs. Three discs with March of the Zombies 3 printed on them. I turned t
he sheet of paper over. It was covered in drippy, blood-red lettering.

  The Undead are BACK, and this time they’re IN A RIGHT STROP!

  ‘Oh no,’ gasped Luke. ‘Peter Lyndon was involved! He did plan the robbery – this proves it!’

  ‘No,’ I said, shaking my head, ‘this proves the exact opposite. You were right, he’s being framed. Someone wants to make sure that the police think he’s guilty.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’ asked Luke.

  I’d made a deduction. Have you spotted it too?

  CHAPTER

  SIX

  ‘THE POLICE FOUND NOTHING WHEN they arrested Lyndon,’ I said. ‘And there’s no way they could have missed that stuff scattered on the garage floor. Therefore, it wasn’t there when they searched. They’ve had Lyndon at the police station since then. So he couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with these things being here – the thieves have only had these covers since last night.’

  ‘But what if the thieves are using Lyndon’s garage?’ said Luke. ‘He decoys the police, while they sneak in here?’

  ‘What?’ I cried. ‘They move hundreds of boxes into this garage after it’s been searched, then move it all out again the following night? No, it doesn’t make sense. Someone has deliberately planted false evidence.’

  ‘Someone who has the keys to his garage,’ said Luke. ‘Which still implies he’s involved, somehow.’

  As we re-crossed the road, back to our bikes, a police car purred into sight at the end of the street. There were two officers in the front seats and someone in the back I couldn’t get a good look at.

  ‘I bet that’s Lyndon now,’ said Luke. ‘Nice of the cops to give him a lift home.’

  I had a sudden, icy-cold feeling at the back of my neck. ‘I don’t think they’re being kind,’ I said quietly. ‘I think whoever planted that evidence wants it to be found. I think the police have just had an anonymous tip-off and they’re coming to search the house again.’