“This LOL curse should be right up their street.”
“Oh, indeed it is; that’s the point. I am aware of at least thirty MP’s that sit on the executive boards of Illuminati companies, several of whom are members of TISAC. More worryingly, one of these also works within the Technical Advisory Board.”
Kenneth waited for this information to sink in.
“Does that mean anything to you, Rupert?” asked Urban-Smith.
“Not a thing. Complete gobbledygook.”
“Could you dumb it down for us please, Kenneth?”
Kenneth huffed and puffed his displeasure.
“All communications providers are obliged by law to maintain the facility to intercept data for purposes of analysis and evidence. The extent to which they are required to do this is set out in the Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act, or RIPA for short. The function of the Technical Advisory Board is to advise the Home Secretary as to how rigorous these obligations should be. This allows them direct influence over how much or how little access British communication providers should have to communications data, be it network information or call content. More importantly, TISAC has influence over how accessible this data is to law enforcement and intelligence services.
“Therefore, what we have is a Member of Parliament who sits on the board of directors for known Illuminati companies and has the ear of the Home Secretary in relation to data interception legislation.”
“Hmm,” murmured Urban-Smith. “Obviously the Illuminati want access to the mobile-telephone networks and are using the LOL curse to facilitate their objective, whatever that may be.”
“That was my thinking too.”
“What is the Illuminati’s goal with this?”
“Sorry, old chap. No idea.”
“Could you e-mail that list of MP’s?”
“Already have.”
“Okay, Kenneth. Thank you very much. Keep us posted.”
“Wilco, Fairfax. Toodle pip.”
Thus terminated the call.
“This is thick, Rupert. It seems that even our own Government is not immune to the Illuminati’s malign influence.”
I mused upon this with scepticism and abhorrence. British politicians are renowned for their scrupulous honesty and propriety. Was it possible that The Fervent Fist had succeeded in infiltrating that incorruptible ascendency of democracy, the Houses of Parliament? Could there truly be a bad apple amongst those glittering pinnacles of integrity and virtue? It was almost unthinkable.
“Though it pains me to do so,” bemoaned Urban-Smith, “I am to attend Wandsworth Police Station in the a.m. to speak to Inspector Gadget. I do not relish the prospect.”
“Can you not relay the information via DS McKendal?”
“Sadly, Wendell is visiting family in the frozen north until next week, so I must face Gadget vis-à-vis, though hopefully not mano-a-mano.”
“Would you like some moral support?” I asked.
“Are you sure that you can spare the time?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Capital!” he cried delightedly. “Then we shall depart tomorrow at half past eight and tap dance into the lion’s den.”
I finished the last of my dessert and began to clear the table.
“Fairfax, it occurs to me that by allowing Mrs Denford to answer the house telephone, we are somewhat casting her in the role of miner’s canary.”
“An excellent observation, Rupert. I shall have words with her.”
“Right then,” I said. “I’m off. Don’t wait up.”
And off I toddled.
*
One a.m. found me stood upon the doorstep of number sixteen, Chuffnell Mews, scraping drunkenly at the lock with my key. After some little while, I managed my way into the house and staggered down the hall, careening from wall to wall until I collapsed onto the sofa and kicked my shoes into the corner.
Urban-Smith was at his easel watching me. “Have you enjoyed yourself, Rupert?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“How is Nell?”
“Lovely,” I slurred.
“Lovely?”
“Yes, lovely.” I pulled myself into a sitting position. “In fact, I shall text her forthwith and inform her thus.”
I located my mobile telephone and texted Nell to advise her of her loveliness. She immediately texted back to inform me that I was also lovely.
I agreed wholeheartedly but insisted that she was clearly the lovelier. Although Nell was of the contrary opinion, we eventually agreed to disagree and bade each other a textual goodnight.
Urban-Smith regarded me keenly throughout this exchange.
“Rupert,” said he, “could you do me a quick favour?”
“Of course I can. Anything at all for you, my fine fellow. Name it and it shall be yours; the shirt off my back, the sweat from my brow.”
“Thank you, Rupert, but there will be no need to disrobe. Here is my mobile telephone. Catch!”
“Ouch,” I said as the telephone bounced off my chest. I rolled over and retrieved it from the floor.
“Please send yourself a text,” instructed Urban-Smith.
“Saying what?” I asked.
“Anything.”
“Anything?”
“Yes. Anything at all.”
I shrugged and did as requested. It took me a little time, but eventually I worked it out, and within a few moments, the pixels and characters had floated across the room and landed on my own telephone, which beeped its approval.
“There you go, Fairfax. Catch.” I drunkenly threw his telephone back to him, and he cursed as it struck him on the ankle.
“Was there a purpose to this exercise?” I enquired.
“Oh, indeed there was,” he replied, rubbing at his injury, “but I should hate to burden you further at this hour. We shall discuss it in the morning.”
Urban-Smith assisted me in returning to a standing position, escorted me to the foot of the stairs and bade me goodnight. After several false starts, I finally staggered upstairs to my room, climbed into bed fully clothed, and was asleep as my head touched the pillow.
*
I dreamt that Dayzee and I were grazing together in a field. I tried to text Urban-Smith but found that my cloven hooves were too clumsy, so I resorted to sending smoke signals.
“Do you think that they will ever discover a kosher pig?” I asked Dayzee.
“Moo!”
◆◆◆
19. THE GAME’S AFOOT
Tuesday 14th November
Wandsworth Police Station is a remarkably quaint, two-storey, brick building on West Hill which, if it hadn’t been for the blue lamp hung upon its facade, would have done very nicely for a dentist’s or solicitor’s office. We found the incident room without difficulty by following the profanity and snorting that invariably accompanies Detective Inspector Gadget wherever he may be.
The room itself was modest with three desks, several sets of shelves stacked with box files and, most critically, a coffee machine. Upon one wall hung a large corkboard with photographs of the deceased and their significant others pinned to it. I was a little disconcerted to see both Urban-Smith’s mugshot and my own amongst the assembled. Urban-Smith’s photograph had been amended by hand to include a pair of horns and the word, ‘tosser’ across his forehead.
Inspector Gadget motioned for us to sit at one of the desks, reluctantly depositing himself on the opposite side and furnishing us with his trademark sneer.
“You have some information for me?”
“Indeed we do, Detective Inspector.”
Urban-Smith proceeded to outline his current theories regarding the motives for the LOL murders, the likely involvement of several members of Her Majesty’s Parliament, The Fervent Fist et al.
“Here is a list of the right honourable members in question. I believe that the most prudent course of action would be to initiate surveillance immediately, if not sooner.”
Inspector Gadget regarded Urban-S
mith much as one might regard a slug that had found its way onto one’s salad.
“Is that it?” DI Gadget snorted derisively. “Is that the best that you can come up with? And on the basis of this rubbish, you expect me to allocate resources to initiate surveillance on six Members of the House of Commons? The Chief Constable plays golf with at least four of them. One of them is a serving Cabinet minister, for ****’s sake!”
“Is that a yes?” enquired Urban-Smith optimistically.
“Of course not, you twat.”
Urban-Smith leant back and folded his arms. “Very well, Detective Inspector. I see only one suitable course of action. I shall have to offer myself up as bait.”
“That sounds more like it.” The faintest hint of a smile curled the corners of DI Gadget’s mouth. “You have my full support in martyring yourself in any way that you see fit.”
“I am heartened to hear you say that,” replied Urban-Smith, “for I require your assistance to set the trap.”
Gadget’s eyes narrowed. “Go on,” he said, his voice tinged with suspicion.
“I should like you to call a joint press conference to announce that I have made a breakthrough in the LOL case which should see the culprits brought to justice within a matter of days.”
A silence fell in the room and I watched with fascination as the colour drained from DI Gadget’s face and his eyes widened and widened and widened further still until I feared that they may burst forth from his head like ping-pong balls from a Bangkok dancing-girl.
“Have you gone insane?” croaked Gadget with horror. “Are you seriously asking me to go before the press and pretend to ask for the help of a certifiable lunatic like you?”
“Oh, Inspector! If to do were as easy as to know what to do.”
Inspector Gadget closed his eyes and rubbed his temples. “I don’t understand it,” he muttered. “How did you ever get to practice as a detective? I wouldn’t use you as a doorstop.”
I had heard just about enough; I was utterly incensed. My hands shook and my heart pounded in my chest. It took every ounce of my self-control not to grab the man by the arm and administer a Chinese burn.
“Now look here, Gadget,” I spluttered.
“Not Gad-JIT, you ****ing gnome; Gad-JAY.”
“Look here, Gad-jay; Fairfax Urban-Smith is possessed of the keenest mind in the whole of the capital. Just because you are too block-headed to see what’s happening, there is no need to denigrate my friend’s abilities. A reputation such as his isn’t built on sugar cubes, dash it.”
For some time we sat silently fuming like three witches who have arrived with picnic hamper upon the heath, only to find that none have thought to pack the eye of newt or toe of frog.
“Alright then, Urban-Git,” growled the DI. “The way I hear it, you’re able to look at a discarded sock and deduce the colour of its owner’s eyes. So, prove it.”
“Prove it?”
“That’s right. Prove it,” demanded DI Gadget, leaning forward and wagging his finger. “If you can impress me with your legendary abilities, I’ll get you your press conference. So, how about it, smartarse? What penetrating insights does the great Fairfax Urban-Smith have regarding block-headed flatfoot, Detective Inspector Dominic Gad-jay?”
Gadget folded his arms tightly and slouched back in his chair, making no effort to hide his contempt. Urban-Smith regarded him evenly, gathering his thoughts.
“Very well, Inspector. Let us start with your hands. There is a deformity of the right fifth knuckle, likely a boxer’s fracture indicating that you used to be a keen fighter but not a trained one, otherwise you would punch with your wrist straight. Your knuckles bear the remnants of home-made tattoos which have been removed only partially successfully, suggesting a misspent youth subsequently regretted. I observe that you do not button your collar, yet I have never seen you with your cuffs unbuttoned or in short sleeves. I will wager that there is something on your arms that you wish to hide; perhaps some tattoos or scars that you do not want others to see.
“At our previous encounters, I have noticed the smell of women’s perfume, but never the same one, from which I infer that you pay for intercourse on a regular basis; clearly you fear that to enter into an emotionally meaningful relationship would render you vulnerable in some way.
“Your disdain for authority figures is apparent from your failure to rise above the rank of Inspector, despite your obvious competence and long years of service. Coupled with the tattoos, broken knuckles and inability to form relationships, this suggests a turbulent childhood and the absence of a strong male role-model. I suspect that this is the origin of your feelings of lack of control and your subsequent need to dominate others.
“Should I continue?”
The DI sat unmoving and with an expression upon his face that I was unable to interpret. For fully a minute he remained impassive, and I felt my body tighten with apprehension, fearing that he may erupt into violence at any moment.
Very slowly and deliberately, Inspector Gadget undid his shirt cuffs and rolled up his sleeves, revealing brawny forearms liberally covered with knots and streaks of thick scar tissue. One area was particularly prominent, forming a triangle with a regular pattern of pale circles within its margins.
“Is that…?” I could not bring myself to finish the question.
“A steam iron, yes. Me and my step-father didn’t see eye-to-eye.” Gadget rolled his sleeves back down and refastened the cuffs. “Tell me about this scheme of yours.”
“It is very simple,” said Urban-Smith. “You must inform the press that I have uncovered evidence which is certain to lead me to the culprits within days. I expect this to precipitate an attempt on my life by an agent or agents of The Fervent Fist. When this happens, I will be ready.”
“Ready how?”
“The assassin needs to be within three hundred metres of my residence in order to commandeer my telephone. As soon as I receive his call, I shall move to intercept him.”
“Oh no you don’t.” Inspector Gadget shook his head almost hard enough to free it from its moorings. “Nobody takes the credit for this, but me. I’ll have a patrol car circulating, ready to collar the bastard.”
“Please, Inspector,” Urban-Smith implored. “These people are ruthless but not reckless. Any hint of a police presence, and they will abandon the attempt. You must keep your officers away until I have him in my sights. I give you my word that I want no recognition for any part that I may play in the resolution of this case. I seek only to bring an end to this iniquity.”
Gadget sat motionless, and I could almost hear the cogs whirring. On the one hand, how it would stick in his craw to be seen to accept the counsel of famed author, detective and paranormal researcher, Fairfax Urban-Smith; on the other, what a feather in his cap if he were to apprehend the instigator of this evil plot, coupled with the very real prospect of Urban-Smith becoming the next victim of the dreaded LOL curse.
In retrospect, it was probably this last point that tipped the scales.
“Alright, weirdo,” said DI Gadget, grudgingly, “you can have your press conference. Be here at four o’clock.”
Urban-Smith opened his mouth to retort, but Inspector Gad-jay silenced him with a wave of his hand. “Don’t push it, or I shall take the good doctor here and shove him headfirst up your arse.”
Neither Urban-Smith nor I liked the sound of that, so we beat a hasty retreat to the police station’s main reception. I withdrew my mobile telephone from my pocket to summon a taxicab and was surprised to discover that I had received a text from Urban-Smith.
“Fairfax?”
“Yes, Rupert?”
“Why did you send me the message, ‘hello sexy,’ at 01:22 this morning?”
“I didn’t. You texted that to yourself.”
“Oh,” said I, relieved and perplexed in equal measures.
“Fairfax?”
“Yes, Rupert?”
“Why did I send myself the message, ‘hello sexy,’ at
01:22 this morning?”
“I asked you to. I was testing a hypothesis.”
“Oh.” I nodded my understanding.
“Fairfax?”
“Allow me to put you out of your misery, Rupert. In the early hours of this morning, I observed you exchanging text messages with Nell and was struck by how dexterously you were doing so, despite your being as inebriated as an amphibian. It seemed odd that you should have been so capable, and yet Professor Gorshkov struggled to answer a simple telephone call.”
“Well,” said I, “the Professor was almost twice my age. He was obviously less techno-savvy than yours truly.”
“You say that, Rupert, but you experienced similar difficulties when asked to perform the same task on an unfamiliar telephone.”
“But Professor Gorshkov was not using an unfamiliar telephone. His wife recognised the ringtone. Kentucky mayonnaise as I recall.”
“Koslovsky’s Polonaises.”
“That’s what I said.” I waved my telephone for emphasis. “So I fail to see the significance of your observation. We have already established that the telephone itself is irrelevant to the proceedings. It is the calls that carry the danger.”
“It is the little details that matter, Rupert,” he admonished. “As a pathologist, you should appreciate this more than most.”
He referred, of course, to our first meeting on the occasion of Ed cleaver’s autopsy. I recalled vividly how he had demonstrated the folly of presumption, deftly exposing evidence that I had overlooked, even though it was laid bare before me. ‘It is not enough to look,’ he had said. ‘One must also be able to see.’
“Details,” I muttered. “Of course.” My telephone bleeped, signalling the arrival of a new text message. “It’s Danny, enquiring as to my whereabouts. I had best call for a taximan.”
“Thank you, Rupert.” He patted at his pockets. “I am afraid that I seem to be a little light today.”
Laugh Out Dead Page 14
