Doctor How and the Deadly Anemones

by Mark Speed

  A minute later she was outside the gentlemen’s toilets on the sixth floor, being kitted out in a disposable white onesie to ensure she didn’t contaminate the crime scene. Once that was on she stepped into blue elasticated shoe-covers and slipped on some latex gloves. She’d done it countless times in her career but she still felt a nauseating claustrophobia as she put on the face mask and pulled the hood of the suit tight around her head. More welcome was the feeling of detachment from one’s surroundings it enabled, giving an extra psychological distance from the horror that the job often presented.

  It was the kind of scene that would always cause a detective on the murder squad to have conflicting thoughts, the first of which was wishing they hadn’t chosen the specialism. That thought was always overridden with either one or both of two more thoughts, which were: I have to stop this from ever happening again; and I want to get whoever did this. In the latter thought, Commander Bunce corrected herself and replaced the ‘whoever’ with ‘whatever’. A human couldn’t possibly have done this. It wasn’t physically possible.

  The first victim had only been discovered after the second had been attacked. The first victim’s cubicle door had been closed and locked from the inside since Saturday. He had been a reclusive man specialising in cryptanalysis, and there had been no one to report him missing. His reputation for absent-mindedness and erratic working hours had meant that security personnel hadn’t thought to conduct extra searches when the security system had reported him as not having left the building – though in mitigation his computer had still been logged on.

  Commander Bunce’s father had told her that in her darkest hour she should realise that there was always someone worse off than herself. The fact that the head of building security for MI6 was that person at the moment didn’t make her feel any better.

  It was the most peculiar corpse she’d ever seen, and not in a good way but a horrifying one. It looked like the bones had literally been picked clean, except for the head, hands and feet. There it sat, still on the toilet some forty-five hours after expiring, a copy of the LMS Newsletter and a biro at his feet.

  “London Mathematical Society Newsletter, Ma’am,” said the scenes-of-crime officer before she could ask. “If you think the Times cryptic crossword’s difficult…”

  “An extraordinary lack of blood, officer.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. Though if you look in the toilet bowl you’ll see that’s where it went. With this one, we believe he was killed and then… eaten in situ from below.”

  “No way into these cubicles other than the door and the pipe?” With her gloved hand she tested the solid wooden door of the next cubicle along. The frontage of the row of cubicles presented a solid wall of oak – there were no gaps at the top or bottom.

  The officer pointed at the metal ventilation grille in the ceiling, which was covered in dust. “You can see that’s not been disturbed in years. Locked from the inside. Whatever it was came up the pipe. And the second victim,” the officer moved along to the cubicle at the end of the row, outside of which a body lay sprawled on the floor, “didn’t bleed much either in my view.”

  “How soon after the initial attack was the incident interrupted?”

  “We think fifteen to twenty seconds, Ma’am. Another member of staff came in, heard the screams, banged on the door, called security. The door was broken open maybe a minute later. Shortly after that the internal team of medics arrived. Nothing doing. They tried CPR but it was hopeless. Not a sausage. Then they saw evidence of the massive internal injuries. The security team broke the other door and discovered what we now know to be the first victim.”

  “So what killed our man here?” she pointed at the body on the floor.

  “Massive internal haemorrhaging according to the MI6 medics, but I’m not so sure. He had three injuries. One internal through the… the anus, Ma’am. They say that’s the killer. And the other two were lacerations with what appear to be sting-marks.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “We’ll see what the autopsy says, but my daughter got stung by a jellyfish on holiday a couple of years ago, Ma’am. Horrible. That’s exactly what it looked like. Except these are bigger. Much bigger. And you can see bruising around the tops of the thighs where it latched onto him. You know; held him in place. That bruising could only have occurred before death. If he’d not screamed, and if this hadn’t been a Monday morning, you’d be looking at an identikit killing with the same kind of remains as the first victim. I think he might have been paralysed and had a cardiac arrest. That’s why there’s not so much blood. He was stung to death first.”

  “And what did the witness say?”

  “We were lucky there. Ex-army. Seen a few things in his time, and very level-headed. Said the screaming stopped abruptly after he’d made vocal contact. Again, consistent with paralysis. Being interviewed now. Care to speak with him yourself?”

  “Thanks, but no.”

  She looked under the remains of the first victim, then back at the toilet bowl used by the second victim. Then she looked in the two remaining cubicles.

  “Notice that the water level is lower in the toilets where the attacks took place,” she said. “It has been displaced by whatever came up to attack. And water would have been taken out of the system as… flesh was taken down.”

  “Very good, Ma’am.”

  “And it’s still down there, whatever it is.”

  A joyous slimy old man in a sewer in Clapham. A photograph of a giant camouflaged spider in Brixton. And now a scenes-of-crime officer was telling him it was probably a jellyfish. She nodded sagely as the man looked at her for a response. Her mind was mulling over the facts – was she or wasn’t she the worst-off person in the entire British police service at the moment? Two more people had been murdered, and in the most horrific manner. It had happened on her watch, during an investigation for which she bore overall responsibility.

  On the other hand, whatever had murdered these men wasn’t human. Technically, that meant it wasn’t murder, because only humans can murder. These were… What were they? Killings. If an escaped tiger had mauled several members of the public to death it wouldn’t be her responsibility. Surely it would be the responsibility of whichever unfortunate Chief Superintendent was in charge of policing for the borough of Lambeth? That couldn’t be right either. There was more to it than this.

  What would Sherlock Holmes say to Dr Watson at this point? He would tell him that, if all the impossible possibilities had been removed, then the only remaining explanation had to be the answer.

  The answer was that someone had let loose some kind of exotic species – possibly even some kind of genetically-modified thing – and was trying to cover up by interfering with the photographic evidence. The fact that it had attacked MI6 personnel surely meant that there was a foreign government behind it. Only a foreign government could possibly have the scientific know-how and resources to create such a monster and then cover their tracks by clever misdirection using fake photographic images.

  She felt elated. This was surely spectacularly out of her league and remit. It was so utterly insane and unlikely that she could be exonerated from any blame because it was beyond reason that she could have done anything about it. Even if it was some ordinary wild creature it wasn’t her fault. If it was as fantastical as the evidence seemed to suggest, then the blame fell right back on MI6 themselves.

  “Ma’am, are you alright?”

  “Mm? Fine, thank you.” Grateful that the officer couldn’t see her grinning on the other side of the face mask. “Excellent work, officer. Very well done indeed. I’m deeply grateful.” She walked out of the gentlemen’s toilet with a spring in her step, struggling to contain her glee as she took off the mask.

  An MI6 minder offered her a secure line to speak with the Commissioner. She politely declined. A secure line from MI6? It was sure to be tapped, and she didn’t want these spooks getting a handle on the conversation with her boss.

  She re
turned to her car with the scenes-of-crime officer, told the driver to stretch his legs for five minutes and used an encrypted channel on the police radio to put across her theory, backed by the SOC’s evidence.

  The Commissioner was incredulous at first, but then behind the disbelief she heard a sense of relief. He didn’t make it known in his words, which he chose carefully, but it was there alright: this was one hell of a mess, but it couldn’t be placed at the Met’s door – not under any circumstances. With just eighteen months to retirement, and a virtually guaranteed seat in the House of Lords, he didn’t want this one blowing back on him. Indeed, the fact that it was his officers who’d been able to get the evidence together and ring-fence some solid conclusions in such an exceptional case spoke highly of their professionalism. He was being asked questions from the highest level, and that one fact was enough to deflect them – until the end of the day, at least. But the Commissioner was insistent on one thing: find someone else to pin this on, and – above all else – make it stick.

  Commander Bunce sat in silence in the rear passenger seat with the SOC officer for thirty seconds, mulling it over. Who would the unfortunate person be? It couldn’t be the MI6 building security manager – the poor guy was only responsible for the deaths of the two people. Who could they pin the Clapham and Brixton deaths on? Someone, somewhere knew about this. She had to track them down.

  A knock on her window brought her back to the immediate situation. It was her MI6 minder. “Excuse me, Commander Bunce. Sir Adrian Brown would like to see you.”

  “How’d you get these, Doc?”

  “Oh, I monitor everything. Usual stuff – semi-sentient programs monitor the important stuff, filter it out. If you recall, that’s how I knew about those big beetles.”

  “Gotcha.” Kevin looked at the Doctor’s screen again and shook his head. “What was Tim thinking, man?”

  “You mean what were Tim thinking? As you know, they don’t get out much these days. Their first kill in decades of retirement… I suppose they just felt useful again.”

  “This shot of Trini is well wicked.” Kevin glanced over at Trinity, who sat at the foot of the basement stairs in her feline form. He’d never thought a cat could wear a despondent face, but there it was. “Cheer up, Trin. Anyone could’ve been caught like that.”

  “It’s such a professional embarrassment for her. One of the Pleasant universe’s natural mistresses of camouflage and she’s caught out by a polyp with the IQ of an earthworm. She’s afraid she’ll be a laughing stock in the out-of-town community.”

  “They ain’t gonna laugh at you, Trin. Least, not to your face. I’d like to see one of them chickens do half the stuff you done even in the last couple of weeks. You get me?”

  Trinity gave a disconsolate yowl.

  “Aw, these things look so fake, Doc. I wouldn’t worry about them too much.”

  “Yes, but the trouble is that the things that look fake are normally what’s real.”

  “Yeah, but the public don’t know that, do they?”

  “It’s not the public’s opinion that I’m worried about at the moment – it’s the fact that these are photographs the security services have. They came from devices at scenes of major crimes.”

  “But even the security services have got to doubt some of this stuff. Surely they’ve never come across images like these. It looks too unreal to be real. It looks like some of the mad stuff that conspiracy nutters believe.”

  “Well, you’re the closest thing I’ve got to an expert in this conspiracy nonsense, so I respect your opinion on the matter.”

  Kevin interrupted him with a wave of his finger. “Nonsense? Turned out I was right all along though, didn’t it?”

  “I don’t want a discussion, Kevin. I want a solution.”

  “Well, I say you release these.”

  “You think I should release them? Even the Met Police and MI6 have only just got them.”

  “That’s my point, Doc. You gotta take the initiative. You can see from their emails and chatter they’re confused as hell right now. If you put these on general release you’re in control. Or, at least, the Six and the Met aren’t in control.”

  The Doctor thought for a moment. “D’you know, I think you’re right. If we leak these, then we force the Met and MI6 onto the back foot. They’re faced with two possibilities. Either they have a leak in their own ranks, or the images have been released by whoever is behind the killings. They have to confirm or deny that these are real images. We force their hand. Brilliant, Kevin! Now, how do we leak them?”

  Kevin rubbed his hands. “Now you’re talking. I could do a release via proxy servers and that, but there’s always the chance it’ll be traced back to me. Last time I checked, you had access to all sorts of funky stuff. But without your Spectrel, do you still have it?”

  “Assume that I do. Do you have a list of sites you’d propagate them to?”

  “Sure. May I?” The Doctor handed him the keyboard and brought out his Tsk Army Ultraknife. Kevin typed in a URL. “This guy’s blogroll is good. And then this guy here,” he tapped another URL in, “has the other good stuff. But if I really had the ability to do it all at once, I’d do this particular Google search and then insert the images.”

  “Excellent,” said the Doctor. “Got all of that. We’ll have to go and see my cousin.” He got up, pocketing his Ultraknife.

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “No, I meant your cousin. When.”

  “For God’s sake, stop wasting time and let’s go.” The Doctor had passed Trinity and was already halfway up the stairs.

  “Can’t we just call him and get him to come over?” said Kevin, giving Trinity a quick stroke on the head as he went past.

  “Call When? You’d get more response from a brick.”

  “He plainly has issues, Doctor. I think that’s a little unfair.”

  “Stuff your political correctness, Kevin – it’ll get you nowhere in a war zone, and that’s what we’re in. You have to state the facts as they are, not as you wish they would be.”

  “What about Dave’s Spectrel? She’s just sitting down there in the basement.”

  “Trust issues, Kevin. Although my Spectrel is looking after David, I wouldn’t want to use his without consent. Come on.” He held the front door open for Kevin.

  “Where does Walter live, then?”

  “The City.”

  “I can’t think of a less suitable place for someone of his personality.”

  “Personality, Kevin? I’d describe it more as a condition.” He glanced over his shoulder and smiled.

  “You are like so out of order, Doc.”

  “Oh, my days,” said Kevin. “This is, like, wild.” They had passed the Guildhall building and were heading down Ironmonger Lane.

  “I take it your school trips were to the countryside, rather than your own city?”

  “Like, you just take these old buildings for granted, along with all the wealthy banks and that. But you never think anybody lives in areas like this.”

  “The Barbican is just to the north – hundreds of residential flats.”

  “No, but not here, Doc.”

  “It’s not so long ago that the City itself was teeming with people of all classes, rich and poor. If you ever get round to reading any Dickens you’ll find that where the Gherkin now stands at St Mary Axe was a very deprived area. Sadly, the corporate money has forced them all out. Not just the big banks but the conmen and scavengers who call themselves hedge funds and investment banks.”

  They came to a pedestrian passage running off Ironmonger Lane. A number of apparently residential houses were arranged around some trees in a courtyard. A closer look revealed that the houses had polished brass plates by their doors.

  “No. Freakin’. Way,” said Kevin. “This is not central London.”

  “I assume your protestations are rhetorical. Here we are. Cousin When’s humble abode.”

  “Man, this has
to be worth millions – just the value of the land alone.”

  They had stopped in front of an absurdly narrow three-storey house of pale grey stone, which was fifteen feet wide, at most. It had black wooden overhanging eaves; the leaded windows were a latticework of diamond-shaped pieces of glass. Those of the upper floors were opaque with grime. The buildings on either side were of brick. The front of the house consisted of a bowed leaded window and a heavy old oak door to the side. There was no signage, but on a shelf in the window lay an ancient gold pocket watch, a brass astrolabe, and something Kevin recognised as being some kind of navigational instrument he’d seen in Pirates of the Caribbean. No matter how hard he looked, he couldn’t see further than three feet into the shop. He wasn’t sure whether it was shade of the trees and buildings, or a trick used by the reclusive Time Keeper.

  “He’s got a bit of a cheek putting that astrolabe and sextant in the window,” said Doctor How. Good job Where’s not here to see them.” He administered three sharp thuds on the door with the weathered brass doorknocker, which bore the intricate design of a clock face with Roman numerals.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well that’s location in space, rather than time: Where, rather than When. I suppose it’s a tangential reference to his friendship with Harrison. He can’t say anything about longitude, other than by displaying a timepiece, so he refers to latitude – playing on the ignorance of the masses.”

  “Gotcha. But, like, what I don’t get is why he’s here. I thought the huge sorting office up the road at Mount Pleasant would be more his thing – you know, the postal service.”

  “He’s been here centuries, since long before the Royal Mail was founded. He grabbed it on the cheap after the Great Fire in 1666. Chap he’d bought it off had lost his entire family the year before in the Great Plague. Rebuilt it in stone, as you can see, which is a little more fireproof than wattle-and-daub with a thatched roof. Neighbours thought he was mad to spend that much on building materials, but he was thinking ahead to surviving the Blitz in the Second World War. This address lets him live in his own little world. Just up the road in the Guildhall Library you’ll find the museum of the Worshipful Company of Clockmakers. Want to know their motto?”