‘Nothing will convince me that was a hoax,’ muttered French.
‘Wait and see,’ I advised.
After a few seconds Lonnie lumbered into the study, resplendent in his full Martian outfit, torch-eyes shining brightly. He paraded in front of us, reproducing that stiff-legged gait to perfection.
French looked on with increasing dejection, his dreams of celebrity ebbing away with every passing second.
‘Alright, that’s it. I’ve seen enough,’ he declared, sinking onto the sofa and burying his head in his hands. ‘Obviously I’ve made a complete fool of myself.’
‘If it’s any comfort,’ remarked Mo sympathetically, ‘he fooled us too. At least you haven’t told the media yet. That would have been a disaster.’
Unconsoled, French pointed an angry finger at Stewart, who had removed his headgear, and was sweating profusely. ‘Your puerile antics nearly cost me my reputation! You could have put ufology back ten years!’
‘I’m sure he knows that,’ I interjected. ‘Now, before we descend into useless recrimination, there’s something I’d like to clear up. You say you shot the video on a Sunday, is that right?’
French nodded.
‘There’s absolutely no chance you could have made a mistake?’
‘Of course not. Why?’
‘Well, the curious thing is that Lonnie, here, swears he only staged his hoaxes on consecutive Fridays. Isn’t that right, Lonnie?’
‘Correct.’
‘Never on a Sunday?’
‘No, never.’
‘Which leaves us, does it not, with a major problem on our hands. Has anyone got a solution?’
No-one had, so I launched into my own.
‘Let’s imagine for a moment that it was Dominic who shot that alien video – not you, Mr. French.’
‘Why should we imagine that?’ he demanded irritably.
‘Because it would explain all the known facts rather neatly. As a scientist you should approve. For example, we know Dominic had a camcorder. My guess is that when he heard about the sightings in Upton Bray he decided to go along, out of journalistic curiosity. It was a Friday night, so Lonnie was performing one of his remarkably convincing hoaxes. Dominic managed to catch the whole thing on film, and came away thinking he had a once-in-a-lifetime scoop! The next step would have been to seek authentication from an expert. Who better to ask than you, Mr. French?’
‘I never met Dominic Gill,’ averred the ufologist calmly.
Ignoring this, I continued my statement: ‘When you saw Dominic’s video you were amazed, excited, but above all envious. Here was an opportunistic journalist who had come to Warminster with the express intention of discrediting UFOs, and yet by a fluke he had obtained a piece of footage which seemed to prove the existence of alien life once and for all! Where was the justice in that? If anyone deserved to get the big prize it was you – the man who had sacrificed a high-powered job in aeronautics, and suffered the derision of a sceptical world, in order to devote his life to ufology. Eaten up with jealousy you determined to steal the film and claim it as your own . . .
‘The following night you lured Dominic out to the wheat field, probably by telling him you’d seen another strange light there. He brought his camcorder along just in case, along with the original alien film on an SD card. Then you murdered him in cold blood – probably by stabbing him in the heart.’
‘But the chest was burnt away, Sherl,’ objected Mo.
‘That was done afterwards – in order to give the impression that Dominic had been zapped by a laser. I imagine something like a blow-torch would have answered the purpose. The removal of part of the colon, and the scorch marks on the ground, both added weight to the idea of an extra-terrestrial murderer.’
Turning back to French I continued. ‘Having pocketed the precious SD card you then disposed of the camcorder. A few days later, once the dust had settled a little, you invited Morris and myself to a private viewing of the film. But first the sound had to be wiped.’
‘Why?’ asked Mo.
‘Remember, Dominic had a stinking cold in the last days before he died. He was coughing and sneezing more or less continuously. Those sounds would have been picked up by the microphone – betraying the cameraman’s true identity. Therefore they had to be removed.’
French had been listening impassively, almost resignedly, to my statement. Now he stood up, smoothed down his wayward tufts of hair, and announced: ‘I’m not even going to dignify your absurd accusation with a denial. We have nothing further to discuss, gentlemen.’
With that he directed us to leave with a peremptory wave of the forearm, rather like a traffic policeman. Lonnie Stewart and Mo trooped outside in silence, but I paused at the threshold in order to deliver my Parthian shot.
‘I suppose it was too much to hope that you’d roll over and confess. After all, the only person who can confirm my theory is dead. But be warned; once the police have you in their sights it can only be a matter of time. One fingerprint, one speck of blood – that’s all it will take to link you to Dominic.’
‘I’m quite prepared to trust in the common sense of a British jury,’ returned French complacently. ‘If it ever comes to that.’
‘Oh, believe me it will. And remember, you killed him for nothing – for a hoax. That’s the supreme irony.’
Mo was very quiet on the journey back to London. I suspected it was because he was ill, but he denied the suggestion.
‘To be honest, Sherl, I’m worried about the case,’ he said, gazing unhappily at the motorway scenery. ‘How sure are you – that it was Gill who took that video?’
‘The more I review the facts the surer I am. Why else would he suddenly discard the sceptical article he was working on, and so near the magazine’s deadline? Obviously something very dramatic happened to alter his opininon of UFOs. He even phoned Harriet in the middle of the night, saying he was going to “rock the establishment”. No, there’s no doubt in my mind that he took the film, and believed it showed a genuine alien.’
Mo stayed silent.
‘Look, I realize you admire Bob French’s work, and you don’t want him to be the murderer. That’s understandable. But the facts have to be faced. Actually, looking back, he rang false from the very beginning.’
‘In what way?’
‘That business about being followed by an MI5 agent, for example. He wanted to portray himself as the hunted one, the victim. But it was all pretty far-fetched and overplayed. You know, if he hadn’t made that one glaring mistake – saying he’d taken the film on a Sunday – I may have overlooked all the smaller clues, and we might still be blaming an alien for Dominic’s death. It was a frame-up on an intergalactic scale, and almost certainly unique in the annals of crime.’
It pains me to record the postscript to this affair, which is less than satisfying.
The police, at my urging, did agree to undertake a series of forensic checks on Bob French’s property. They found a human hair lodged in the carpet of his study, the DNA of which matched that of the deceased man.
Unfortunately, the defence counsel was able to point out that Mo had visited the scene of the crime, and could have inadvertently carried that hair into French’s house. It was only a remote, theoretical possibility, but it undermined the only substantive proof in the case.
French’s faith in the judicial system turned out to be well-founded – he was acquitted.
Major Campbell-Farr never completed his conference centre, by the way. His backers pulled out when the hoaxing activity came to light. He was forced to sell the Falcon Hotel, and now runs a small bed-and-breakfast establishment in Hove.
THE PERSISTENT ADMIRER
CHAPTER ONE
It was just after 6 p.m.
Alice, owner of the Visage beauty salon, emerged from the basement staff-room yawning, and turning off lights as she came.
‘I’ve cashed up,’ said Lucy, her petite, doe-eyed employee.
Alice acknowledged this with a
tired nod and locked the till.
Stepping out into the narrow, ancient street they were met by a withering blast of raw November air.
Alice shivered, turned up her collar, and said: ‘I can walk you as far as the market-square.’
‘No, thanks,’ replied Lucy, in a resolute tone, ‘I’ll be OK.’
‘Hubby picking you up?’
‘I’ve got my car today.’
Alice held the girl with a searching stare. ‘Well, if you’re absolutely sure you’ll be alright.’
‘Sure.’
‘I’ll see you Monday, then.’
Lucy smiled weakly, echoed: ‘See you Monday’, then trotted off towards the park, leaving Alice to gaze anxiously after her.
‘Just keep walking. Don’t look round.’
Lucy repeated this inspiriting mantra under her breath, in time with her quick dainty steps, and before long she had crossed the park, woven her way between the empty market stalls, and entered the passage which cut through to the multi-storey.
Half way along she became aware of that same uncomfortable sensation – subliminal, nagging, a slight warmth spreading from the nape of her neck down her spine and back again. She breathed in sharply, then swung round.
There was nobody there; only ambiguous, eerie shadows cast by the street-lamps. After a few seconds her heart rate returned to something like normal. She continued up the passage, which was flanked by time-worn college walls, trying not to run, but running despite herself.
Just outside the carpark entrance she collided head-on with an elderly man in a trilby hat, who almost fell backwards with the impact.
‘Sorry!’ she exclaimed, placing a solicitous hand on his arm. ‘Are you alright?’
‘Yes, yes, no harm done,’ muttered the unfortunate gentleman, wishing to appear less shaken than he actually was.
Lucy made quite sure he had regained his composure before turning away and ascending the stairs. She ignored the lifts. Lifts made her jumpy.
Coming out on Level D she was struck by the funny side of the incident and let out an involuntary, whinnying giggle, which reverberated around the whole building. She put her hand to her mouth, like a naughty schoolgirl. Over in the corner stood her friendly little Fiat, its nose peeping out from behind a concrete pillar. Before she could reach it, however, she became aware of a faint hiss, almost as if someone was letting air out of a tyre.
Then silence.
She walked on a few, deliberate paces. It came again, more like a whisper this time, but from no direction in particular.
‘Who’s there?’ she called, in a cracked voice.
She was drilled to the spot, but also tantalisingly close to the safety of the car.
The whisper was now distinct and plaintive: ‘Lucy! Talk to me!’
She made a dash forward, reaching frantically into her handbag for the car keys.
‘Don’t run away!’ came the hiss, rising in urgency. ‘Why are you doing this to me? I still love you!’
She wheeled round crazily, like a top. ‘Who are you! Leave me alone!’
‘I can’t. You know I can’t. Please don’t desert me. I need you!’
At last she managed to unlock the car, her fingers almost useless with numbing fear. She jumped into the driver’s seat, pushed the key into the ignition, and turned. The engine whined, but refused to fire. She swore and tried again. This time it obliged. Jerking the gear stick into reverse she lurched out of the parking space.
At that instant a young man leapt from behind an adjoining car and bent over her windscreen, his palms pressed hard and bloodless onto the glass. There was something almost spiritual about his pallid face, the eyes were sad and beseeching. For a moment those eyes reminded Lucy of someone . . .
She shifted into first – the car jolted forward, throwing the man well clear of the bonnet. Then she drove – furiously – for the exit, spiralling down and down, almost scraping the car against the walls, laughing hysterically all the while. It was a laugh of triumph, and relief.
‘I’ve come to the conclusion that we must be using the wrong media,’ announced Morris, staring broodily into the fire, and occasionally giving the coals an aggressive poke.
I failed to respond, being absorbed at the time by a science documentary.
Mo went on: ‘We might have to broaden our net – look at local radio, perhaps, or even the tabloids. Sherl? Did you hear?’
‘Mm?’
‘What’s so fascinating, anyway?’
‘A programme I taped, about D.N.A. fingerprinting. Did you know it’s a long way from being an infallible technique? Quite alarming, really, considering how many prosecutions hinge on it.’
I switched onto ‘PAUSE’ and looked across at my colleague. ‘You wanted to discuss our advertising policy?’
‘Yes, if you can spare the time,’ said Mo tartly. ‘You’re the one who’s always complaining about the lack of interesting cases. It’s a serious problem, and I’m trying to find a practical solution.’
‘You see, Holmes employed what we might today be forgiven for calling lateral thinking,’ I theorized loftily, leaning back in my chair.
Mo’s eyes started to glaze over.
‘Take the Red Headed League. It’s only purpose was to lure poor Jabez Wilson away from his premises. Once that was understood the case became childishly simple. Now, if we could only get hold of problems like that.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Mo, perking up a little, ‘we’ll hire an advertising agency – just for a one-off consultation. They’ll have a totally different perspective. Actually, I know someone who might be able to help – or at least point us in the right direction. He works at Manders and Bell. Shall I give him a call now?’
Instead of replying I flourished a sheet of superior blue writing-paper in front of Mo’s elongated features.
‘What’s this?’
‘You see before you a promising referral.’
‘Who’s it from?’
‘My dear Mama.’
‘Your mother?’ smirked Mo. ‘Aren’t we scraping the barrel?’
‘You may mock, but the affair certainly seems promising enough.’
‘Go on, then. Let’s hear about it.’
‘Can you possibly contain your curiosity until four o’clock?’ I asked, looking at my watch.
‘Why, what happens at four o’clock?’
‘I’ve invited Mother for tea. She’s always asking to see where I work, and this is as good a time as any. She’s getting a train down from Cambridge.’
Mother’s teas tend to be elaborate and ceremonial occasions. In order to make her feel quite at home, therefore, I enlisted Mo’s help in preparing a sumptuous spread, consisting of egg-and-cress sandwiches, scones, and cakes. We used our best china, of course.
She arrived half an hour late, by taxi. As soon as she saw our parlour she declared: ‘Yes, this is exactly how I hoped it would look.’
‘Good,’ I said, taking her coat and guiding her towards the table.
When she caught sight of the repast she frowned and wagged a reproachful finger at me. ‘This is very naughty of you, Christopher! I asked you not to put yourself out on my account.’
All the same, there was a brightness in her eye which indicated that she was secretly pleased.
‘You’ve met Morris, haven’t you, Mother?’ I asked, as my colleague came in from the kitchen bearing the teapot.
‘No, but I think we’ve spoken on the phone.’
‘Actually, I did meet you once, Mrs. Webster,’ said Mo. ‘back in 2000. You collected Christopher from college at the end of the summer term. I doubt you’d remember me, though.’
‘Sorry, I’m terrible at faces,’ she replied sadly, ‘and getting worse all the time.’
‘Rubbish!’ I exclaimed. ‘She’s observant, almost to a fault. Aren’t you, Mother?’
‘Hardly! But let me tell you about this strange business, before I forget the details.’
‘Excellent idea – cut out
the small talk! You’d better start from scratch, though, because Morris doesn’t know anything about it yet.’
‘As you know,’ she began, settling down to a cheese scone, ‘I like to get all my Christmas shopping done in Cambridge – ridiculously early. And when I’m in town I usually treat myself to a manicure at Mrs. Elkbourn’s. I’ve used her for years. Her assistant is a young girl called Lucy. Now, Lucy is normally friendly and efficient. But on this occasion she looked very distrait, and she spilt coffee all over me: most unlike her. I had a discreet chat with Mrs. Elkbourn (while Lucy was out at lunch). Apparently the poor little thing’s had an absolutely ghastly time of it recently.’
‘You refer, I take it, to this stalker, the Phantom Admirer of Old Cambridge Town?’
‘Yes,’ said Mother, looking miffed that her thunder had been stolen. ‘It’s been going on for weeks. This pest lies in wait for Lucy, then jumps out and says odd things.’
‘You mean obscene, threatening things?’ asked Mo.
Mother shook her head ruminatively. ‘Not exactly, no. More like professions of undying love and devotion. He appears to be completely besotted by her for some reason. I admit, she is quite pretty, but even so . . .’
‘Could we be dealing with a mental patient – a schizophrenic, perhaps?’ I suggested.
She nodded energetically. ‘That’s what Alice – Mrs. Elkbourn – thinks. There’s Fenbrook Mental Hospital quite near. Not to mention all these poor souls who’ve suddenly been pushed out “into the community.” ’
‘Surely the police can do something?’ suggested Mo.
‘No, not until a crime has been committed, or the man threatens violence,’ replied Mother. ‘She could try for an injunction – but it may not be granted.’
‘So, Lucy wants us to stop this man hassling her?’
‘Yes, exactly. Do you think you can?’
Mo turned to me for an answer.
‘We’ll do our level best, Mother. By the way, what’s this new development you mentioned on the phone?’
‘Ah, yes. Mrs. Elkbourn telephoned me this morning. Apparently the wretched man walked into the salon yesterday – bold as brass! He left this letter with the receptionist, Chloe, then went away again.’
The Sherlock Effect Page 9
