‘Stiff – all over,’ I replied. ‘Thanks for looking after me last night, though.’
‘That woman tried to kill you – no doubt about it. What have we let ourselves in for, Sherl?’
‘A dangerous case,’ I admitted. ‘And I think we may consider ourselves well and truly warned off.’
‘But you still want to carry on?’
‘We can hardly throw in the towel every time there’s a minor reverse.’
‘Minor reverse? Look at you!’
True, I was not a particularly pretty sight, now that the bruises had blossomed into full technicolour.
‘Oh well,’ said Mo, lifting the teapot with a resigned air, ‘I suppose if you’re game, I’m game.’
‘Spoken like a true Watson! A man of the right kidney.’
‘Leave my internal organs out of this.’
‘By the way, I’m still driving down to Sussex today, with Byron.’
‘In your state?’
‘I’ll be alright.’
‘What about me?’ objected my colleague, feeding the toaster with a slice of bread and looking hurt.
‘You can have a go at tracing the B.M.W., with the help of that friend on the Force that you’re always mentioning. Oh, and I’d like you to contact some of the legitimate animal rights societies. See what they know about the Animal Defence Militia.’
After breakfast I headed gingerly for the bedroom to get dressed.
‘We don’t want any more near-misses like last night,’ said Mo, watching me with a concerned frown. ‘Be careful. Don’t take any unnecessary risks.’
I picked up Byron Silk an hour later, from a rehearsal studio in a grim, Dickensian warehouse near London Bridge. He had just finished a practice session with his own, as yet undiscovered, band.
On the journey south we chatted, mainly about the current state of pop music. I played him some of my old stuff, he played his reggae. We crossed into smiling, undulating Sussex in good time.
The Bird’s Nest was roughly equidistant between Hastings and Rye, near a tiny village called Berry Cross. The whole area was densely wooded – so much so that we completely missed the turning, and had to double back.
A narrow, suspension-testing lane tunnelled through a wall of foliage towards the cottage. It soon deteriorated into an unpassable track; we were forced to abandoned the car and walk the rest of the way, coming at last to a garden quite overrun with brambles and ferns.
The cottage itself was in a sorry state, it’s windows smashed or boarded-up. The thatched roof was balding and the weather-cock (actually a fox) pointed straight down to the ground.
‘I’d like you to re-enact what happened on the day you found Jake.’ I requested, as we paused outside the door. ‘Did Vicki come in with you?’
‘No, she stayed in the car,’ recalled Byron. ‘It was dark. There was a slit of light in that window up there. I went inside.’
We pushed open the door to find an interior just as sad as the exterior. Wallpaper looped off the walls everywhere, and a damp, mildewy odour overwhelmed the senses. My guide led on through the dingy hall to a staircase. As we ascended it he warned: ‘Be careful, man, I put my foot through that step.’
‘Oh yes, the wood’s rotten,’ I confirmed.
The landing onto which we emerged had five doors off it.
‘Which room was Jake in, then?’ I enquired.
‘That one, right at the end.’
‘How did you find that out?’
‘The light was coming from under the door.’
‘I see. And all these other doors were closed as well, like they are now?’
‘Yep. I walked down the landing, and I heard a chinking sound, like someone was trying to pick the lock. I shouted; “Jake? It’s Byron!” He shouted back; “Get me out of here!”. The bedroom door was locked, so I had to kick it in.’
I examined the broken lock, which was of a substantial, old-fashioned design. The bedroom was empty apart from a grubby mattress, a plastic bowl (Jake’s chamber pot, perhaps), and an oil lamp. The single window was boarded-up with plywood, allowing only a narrow strip of daylight in.
‘So this room, effectively, was Jake’s prison cell?’
‘That’s right. He was sitting over there on the floor when I found him – handcuffed.’
‘How did he look?’
‘Thin as a bean-pole.’
‘I imagine he was rather relieved to see you.’
‘Yes, but he’d lost his voice – wouldn’t open his mouth for a while. It was the shock. Delayed shock, they call it.’
‘Yes, I know all about that,’ I said wryly.
‘Also, he was sick,’ added Byron. ‘He ran out to the bathroom and threw up in the toilet.’
‘The kidnappers gave him unhealthy food, I understand?’
‘Must have done.’
‘Where is the bathroom, by the way?’
Byron showed me to a door at the opposite end of the landing.
‘So, he ran straight in here and vomited?’
‘Right. I waited outside – in case he needed help. But he came out after flushing a few times.’
I made a search of the bathroom. Inside the cistern I discovered a large, rusty key.
‘Perhaps this fits the bedroom lock,’ I speculated.
We tried, and it did.
The ground floor yielded nothing more, apart from a leaflet lying on the kitchen table. It was produced by the R.S.P.C.A., outlining the laws against animal cruelty, and the punishments one could expect.
Finally, after making a cursory survey of the garden, my work was finished. We returned to the car.
Back in London, I dropped Byron off at his Clapham flat, before going on to Crawford Street. Mo greeted me with a touching show of relief.
‘Sherl! Good to see you!’ He said, shaking my hand vigorously. ‘No more attempts on your life, then?’
‘No. How have you fared with your research?’
‘Well, I managed to trace the B.M.W. to a Mr. Graham Parvis, of Welwyn Garden City – he’s in the phone book. I spoke to his wife. Apparently they sold it two weeks ago.’
‘Who was the buyer?’
‘Before you get too excited, he called himself Peter Smith – obviously a pseudonym – and paid cash.’
‘Description?’
‘Medium height, thirtyish, Scottish accent. Wore a hat. He seemed to be in a big hurry to complete the transaction, according to the lady.’
‘Sounds like one of the kidnappers alright. What about the animal welfare societies?’
‘Had an interesting chat with John Shilling, who’s a press officer for CAFF, the Campaign for the Abolition of Factory Farming. He didn’t know anything about the Animal Defence Militia, but he said they sound like a gang who abducted a scientist in Edinburgh, three years ago.’
‘Oh yes? What was the outcome of that?’
‘The gang wanted all the animals to be released from the research labs. Their demand was refused, of course.’
‘And the scientist?’
‘Found tied up in a barn, freaking out. He’d been given a massive dose of L.S.D. Hasn’t worked since, apparently. Do you think it is the same lot?’
‘Let’s hope it isn’t, otherwise Jake’s prospects could be unhealthier than we thought.’
‘Actually,’ remarked Mo, ‘this Shilling bloke got quite aerated about the whole issue. He said the extremists were putting the animal rights cause back years. Quote; “They blow up chemists and put glass in sausages. We use democratic persuasion. But we’re all tarred with the same brush.” End quote.’
Just then the phone rang.
‘Sherl? It’s Vicki. Listen, I’ve got to deliver the money today, at 10pm.’
‘Today?’ I repeated, horrified. ‘But I thought the deadline was Sunday! Are you sure?’
‘Yes. They gave the message to my housekeeper.’
I let out a curse. ‘This alters everything. Where’s the drop?’
‘Same place as be
fore; the dustbin outside 12 Dock End Lane.’
‘Alright, do exactly as they instruct. Have you got the money?’
‘It’s waiting for me at my bank.’
‘Good. After you’ve delivered it go straight over to Byron’s place and wait.’
‘Where will you be?’
‘Close at hand. I’ll ring you on Byron’s number, some time after eleven. If there are any problems ring us on the mobile. And try not to get too anxious.’
‘I’ll try,’ she replied, in a small, unconvincing voice.
Mo glanced at me questioningly as I put the phone down.
‘This drama moves into it’s final act,’ I said, ‘and rather prematurely.’
Then I produced a pair of handcuffs from a discreet drawer.
‘What the hell are those for?’ asked my colleague, tugging nervously at his adam’s apple, as was his habit under stress.
‘Pretty, aren’t they?’ I said evasively, dangling them in a sunbeam. ‘And a common motif throughout this case. What are they for? Well, this evening someone will arrive at Dock End Lane to collect a huge ransom, unaware that we are waiting to collect them!’
Mo’s jaw dropped. ‘You mean we’re going to . . . ?’
‘Indeed we are – and without informing Vicki. It would worry her too much if she knew the plan.’
‘What about Jake? Those maniacs will kill him if we stop them getting their money. Have you thought about that, Sherl?’
I regarded him with a benevolent smile. ‘I’m responsible for the cerebral work in our partnership. That was the original agreement, was it not?’
‘I know, but that doesn’t mean –’
‘As one partner to another I must call upon your patience and trust, at least until this evening. We have a trap to set!’
CHAPTER THREE
It was not very pleasant to be lying on our stomachs on the filthy floor of an abandoned Brixton squat, peering at a dustbin through a hole in the door. Especially as we had been in that unglamorous situation for over two hours.
Night was descending, and once again it was unconscionably hot, humid and sticky. The yelp of a distant dog, the rumble of a passing car, footsteps from infrequent pedestrians, our own shallow breaths – these were the sounds that marked out our vigil.
My watch displayed the critical time of 9.57 in shining digits, and just as the 7 turned to 8 we heard the first in a series of purposeful, stilettoish clicks.
‘Vicki?’ whispered Mo, nudging my arm.
I nodded and put my finger to my lips.
Through the peep-hole I discerned a slender form approach, remove the dustbin lid, and place a large, dark, square object inside. Then the same clicking steps receded into the night.
‘The bait is set,’ I declared.
‘Time for a swig,’ said Mo, reaching for his thermos flask which contained iced lager. ‘Want some?’
‘No, thanks. I ought to keep a clear head. We’re on full alert from now until the end of the night. And it’s your shift, I believe.’
Little did we suspect how soon the meat of the action would occur, however, for hardly had Mo put his eye to the hole than a car pulled up right outside Number 12. The engine ran on for a few seconds, then died.
‘What do you see?’ I hissed, pulling at Mo’s arm.
‘Big car. Could be the B.M.W. – I’m not sure. There’s no movement yet.’
‘Can you see the driver?’
‘Not very well. There’s a bush in the way! Hang on, now there is movement!’
I gathered up my handcuffs and rose to my haunches, my fingers poised on the door handle. We were both breathing fast now, the adrenaline surging through our tensed bodies.
‘It’s the woman who ran you down! The kidnapper!’ rasped Mo. ‘Long blonde hair – has to be her! She’s looking up the street. Down the street. Hesitating. This is it – she’s coming up the path!’
‘Ready?’
‘As I’ll ever be.’
‘Remember the drill. And good luck.’
We heard surprisingly heavy footsteps which grew progressively louder until it seemed only the thickness of the door divided us from our prey. I could feel Mo straining at the leash, but he was not to move before my signal.
There was a clatter, indicating that the dustbin lid was being lifted, then another as the cash-filled suit-case was removed. That was the cue.
‘Now!’ I cried.
In one fluid action our combined weight forced the door open, and we leapt, tigerishly, out into the darkness. There was a hideous screech of surprise, the suit-case was dropped, and then Mo rugby-tackled our quarry, who hit the path with a dull thud, and another frightened yelp.
I moved in, wrenching the arms back and applying the handcuffs in a swift, rehearsed technique. The whole process could not have taken more than five seconds. Our captive was pulled up, frog-marched back into the house, pushed into a chair, and bound by the ankles.
‘You’d better bring the money inside, for safety,’ I said, recovering my breath. ‘I’ll stand guard here.’
Mo switched on his torch, then stepped outside. He returned carrying the suit-case in one hand, and waving a piece of paper in the other.
‘Take a look at this message, Sherl. I found it stuck to the dustbin lid. She must have put it there just now,’ he added, pointing to our prisoner.
‘What does it say?’
He held the paper close up to the torch, and read: ‘Dear Vicki, thanks for your contribution. We regret to inform you that Jake Humber died in captivity. However, his death was not in vain. Perhaps now the governments of the world will stop and think before they allow further crimes against animals. We will send you the rest of Jake’s fur later. The Animal Defence Militia.’
Mo handed me the note slowly. ‘Bastards! They never had any intention of releasing Jake. How do we break it to Vicki?’
‘I’ll try her car-phone,’ I said, grabbing the mobile.
The singer answered almost immediately.
‘Vicki? It’s Sherl. We’re at 12 Dock End Lane. Yes, where you’ve just delivered the money. No, I can’t explain now. Can you drive back here straightaway? There’s been a development.’
We waited in subdued mood, watching over our prisoner, whose head was constantly bowed – the face lost behind a mass of frizzy blonde locks.
It wasn’t long before Vicki’s Aston Martin screeched to a halt outside. She ran up the path, flung open the door, and yelled; ‘I can’t see a bloody thing! Where are you?’
‘In here!’ called Mo, wheeling his torch around.
The singer groped her way along the hall, and joined us at last in the front room.
‘OK, what’s happening? Who’s this?’ she enquired, pointing at the strange, motionless figure in the chair.
‘Our case is solved, Miss Vine,’ I announced formally. ‘The outcome, as far as you are concerned, is a less than happy one.’
‘What do you mean, less than happy? Has something happened to Jake? Is he dead? He is, isn’t he! It’s your fault, you bloody amateur!’ She advanced towards me, her features contorted with rage.
‘Please, just let me explain.’
I crossed the room, the beam of Mo’s torch following me like a spotlight, and stood directly behind the prisoner.
‘This person here is single-handedly responsible for all the recent outrages – the kidnaps, the attempt upon my life, everything.’
With that, I grabbed that blonde mane with both hands, and yanked it off in one piece.
‘Ow! That hurt!’ came the reaction – in a deep, and decidedly male voice.
‘My god! It’s a man!’ exclaimed Mo in utter astonishment. ‘A man in drag!’
‘Indeed it is,’ I confirmed. ‘Can you bring your torch right up to his face? That’s it. Now, Vicki, let me introduce you to – or rather, let me reunite you with – Mr. Jake Humber!’
There was an excruciating, stunned pause.
Then Vicki moved a step nearer, reluctantly,
as if afraid of confirming the fact. ‘Jake? Is it you?’
I took out a handkerchief and wiped some of the gaudy lipstick off the man’s mouth. ‘He should be more recognisable now.’
‘Jake!’ she gasped. ‘What the hell have you been up to?’
He averted his gaze and remained obstinately silent.
‘I would love to be able to describe this as an elaborate practical joke which got out of hand,’ I remarked, ‘but of course it’s a great deal more serious. Your ex-fiancé has twice faked his own abduction, and cheated you out of a small fortune.’
‘Well?’ said Vicki, shaking him by the shoulders. ‘Say something! Aren’t you going to deny it?’
Jake glared, but did not respond.
‘I’m sure Mr. Humber would have no objection to my answering on his behalf. Especially as playing dumb seems to be quite a habit of his.’
I struck an authoritative pose, cleared my throat, and then began my prepared analysis.
‘Rights . . . the rights of animals, the rights of men. Jake, here, felt he had a right to share in the fruits of your success, Vicki. After all, if it wasn’t for his glowing articles in Turntable magazine you may never have achieved stardom. Marriage would have given him financial security, of course, but you kept putting it off. It was only a matter of time, he feared, before you found a replacement; someone younger, less dissipated, perhaps?’
‘I’ve always been faithful to him!’ objected Vicki indignantly.
‘Nevertheless, Jake felt he had to cash in before it was too late. The solution occured to him when he saw that photograph on your last album.
‘Anonymously, he fed his cronies in the music press a rumour that those fur stoles were genuine. It caused a media witch-hunt. Then came the first disappearing act. He retired to a deserted cottage in Sussex, starved himself, and sent you a ransom demand from the fictional Animal Defence Militia – along with a photo, and lock of his own hair. Quite understandably you were completely taken in, and delivered the £200,000 as instructed. Jake picked it up, stashed it, then coolly returned to the cottage in time to be ‘rescued’.
‘That might have been the end of the matter, had it not been for one casual remark. You told Jake that if the kidnappers had demanded twice as much you would still have paid up. A very commendable sentiment. But when Jake heard that greed got the better of him, and he decided to test your statement. He staged a second disappearance outside a restaurant, then posted a demand for £500,000.
The Sherlock Effect Page 4
