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Chapter 16

  The Mirror

  Crime boss Barabas King strode across the warehouse floor towards his own reflection. He’d moved between so many locations he barely remembered which warehouse it was, or where in the city he was, or where he’d been. Maybe the doctors had been right: maybe he really had detached from reality. A ‘psychotic break’, they had called it. He approached the shard of mirror hanging on the wall and stared deeply into it. Then he smiled wide, baring his sharpened, fang-like teeth.

  Someone had once told him that if you stared at yourself in a mirror for long enough you’d be able to see all your past lives pass before your eyes. As King gazed intently into his own unusually small irises, he thought perhaps that someone had been right. Perhaps he shouldn’t have killed that someone after all. They may have had more to offer on other subjects too. He ran his fingers over the rough stubble developing on his cheeks, chin and neck – thick hairs which threatened to poke through the skin and reveal the animal within.

  As he continued to gape at his reflection, a long shadow appeared behind him on the wall, accompanied by a stammering male voice.

  ‘Th-they’re on to us,’ the voice faltered. ‘She’s threatening our operation.’

  King’s face clouded over. ‘Fiona’s playing with fire . . .’ he hissed. ‘What d’you want me to do about it, Underwood?’ he spat the villain’s name out.

  The long shadow drew closer, getting larger.

  King snarled and continued to stare into his own eyes, until the stammering voice spoke again, more insistently.

  ‘You work for the Combination . . . Don’t f-f-fail me, King.’

  Chapter 17

  The B-Team

  Clive exited the dual carriageway, pulled up to the Little Chef restaurant and parked the Jag badly, taking up two spaces. He opened the door and several used, plastic coffee cups fell out on to the tarmac. Clive ignored them and slammed the door, further dislodging the wing mirror, which hung at an unnatural angle due to a recent collision with an old lady driving a compact car. Clive’s insurance company found him liable, but Clive firmly believed the old lady must have used bribery or some other form of persuasion (cakes perhaps) in order to turn the case against him.

  He cursed her as he lumbered across the car park, then momentarily forgot who he was supposed to be meeting in the first place. He racked his brain and realised yet again how impaired his ‘facilities’ were since that disastrous encounter with the bestselling book, The Code, and its evil, hypnotic mastermind, Morton Underwood. Clive daily tried to shake off the memory of those insane events, but they still seemed to rattle around in his head like so many loose nuts and bolts.

  He continued towards the entrance, passing a police Vauxhall parked subtly behind a heavy goods vehicle, and suddenly remembered the purpose of his visit.

  He pushed through the heavy glass doors with the confidence of a cowboy entering his local saloon. He adjusted the trousers of his shell suit and nodded to the frail waitress at the counter. She managed a weak wave in return. Clive glanced over the booths, which were mostly empty, except for a few lorry drivers and a man in a slightly ill-fitting suit whose face was buried behind a menu at the far corner of the restaurant.

  Clive ambled down the aisle, nodding to the chef, who didn’t acknowledge him and carried on idly flipping burgers. As Clive arrived at the corner table, the man in the suit looked up from his menu, inspected him covertly and gestured to the seat opposite.

  ‘Sorry I kept you waiting, Inspector,’ said Clive.

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ replied Draycott, nervously playing with his moustache. ‘And keep your voice down.’

  Draycott was still smarting from his last encounter with Clive Palmer, which had left the unfortunate inspector with a broken nose and a concussion after foolishly intervening in a life-and-death struggle between Clive and his unusual stepson, Darkus, in the bathroom of Wolseley Close. Draycott never did get to the bottom of exactly what had caused Clive to have his psychotic ‘benny’. Charges were never pressed, although there were chuckles and Chinese whispers at the police station about Draycott’s humiliating fall from grace.

  Draycott deduced that Clive’s odd behaviour had something to do with the man’s own fall from grace, his controversial departure from the TV programme Wheel Spin and his long stay in a trauma clinic, in Staffordshire apparently. And so it was with some trepidation that Draycott agreed to a surreptitious meet-up at this roadside eatery. In fact the only reason he’d even considered it was because Clive promised new information on Draycott’s long-time nemesis, the dangerously strange private eye, Alan Knightley. Clive may have been an unlikely ally, but when it came to Knightley, Draycott would take his allies where he could get them. Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

  And besides, maybe they both had something to prove.

  ‘What can I get you, gentlemen?’ the frail waitress enquired, her hands shaking as she waited with her pen poised over her notepad.

  ‘A cup of tea and the Works Burger,’ answered Draycott precisely.

  ‘Make that two,’ added Clive. ‘And the Monster Nachos please, Doreen.’

  ‘Coming up,’ she replied buoyantly, then limped off towards the kitchen.

  Draycott wrinkled his moustache impatiently. ‘Well, Clive? Gimme what you got.’ He gestured with his hand.

  Clive slid a rolled-up newspaper out of his shell suit and unfolded it on the table.

  ‘Cranston Star. Breaking news. Read all about it,’ Clive announced.

  Draycott snatched up the paper and read the front page. He began massaging his moustache feverishly. ‘Knightley . . .’ he whispered.

  ‘And his son,’ muttered Clive dismissively.

  Draycott continued reading. ‘A werewolf?!’ he blurted. ‘Hah!!’

  ‘I have a feeling my daughter’s involved too. She’s been AWOL since yesterday afternoon.’

  ‘You realise I can’t involve the police without reasonable suspicion that a crime has been committed.’

  ‘I don’t want the fuzz involved.’

  Draycott frowned at this crude slang for law enforcement. ‘Then what do you want?’

  ‘To find out what’s really going on up there on Hampstead Heath. It’s probably just a bunch of hyperactive foxes. Cute, cuddly foxes.’ Clive’s face went blank and he seemed to drift off for a moment.

  ‘I believe the correct term is a skulk of foxes.’

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Your point being . . . ?’ urged Draycott.

  ‘I want to pool our resources, uncover the truth and discredit the Knightleys for good. A covert operation, undercover, black ops, dead of night. We catch the preda­tor and the Knightleys are left with egg on their face. Well, what d’you say?’ Clive panted. ‘It’ll be . . . phe-nom-enal.’ A tiny ball of saliva formed at the corner of his mouth as he waited for Draycott’s response. ‘Come on, don’t keep me hanging here.’

  Draycott flicked through all the reasons why this would be a terrible, potentially career-ending move, before replying: ‘OK, you’re on.’

  ‘Fan-tastic!’ Clive erupted, before sitting down in his seat again.

  So tantalising was the prospect of outwitting the ‘great’ Alan Knightley and his extremely odd son, that Draycott couldn’t resist. ‘But we do things my way, Clive. No showboating. This isn’t TV, this is reality.’

  ‘You took the words right out of my mouth.’

  ‘Right. I need to think about this.’

  ‘What sort of car will we need?’ asked Clive excitedly. ‘I’m thinking all-terrain. Or quad bikes. Quad bikes are awesome.’

  ‘We need to move stealthily, under cover of night.’

  ‘Black quad bikes.’

  ‘No quad bikes, Clive.’

  ‘OK.’ He still looked like he had quad bikes on the brain.

  ‘We need to get to Hampstead Heath as soon as possible, before the whole of Great Britain picks up on this story.’

  Clive picked up his phone and slid it across
the table. ‘Might be a little late for that . . .’ On the screen a national tabloid headline read: Detectives track werewolf in London. ‘News travels fast,’ said Clive.

  ‘Then we must be faster,’ replied Draycott as the food arrived. ‘I’ll have mine boxed up to take away.’

  ‘Make that two, Doreen,’ said Clive.

  Doreen shrugged and trudged away.

  At that moment, another figure entered the restaur­ant sporting a handlebar moustache, a combat jacket with Burke velcroed on it, and a pair of jogging trousers bearing the Cranston logo.

  ‘Forgot to mention,’ added Clive. ‘I’ve enlisted some extra ground support. May I introduce Lance Corporal Burke from Cranston’s PE department.’

  Burke nudged in beside him. ‘Unavoidable delay. Man down on the rugger pitch.’

  Clive patted him on the shoulder. ‘Burke’s encountered the Knightleys before – Darkus, to be exact, during one of my daughter’s escape attempts. He also has a background in army special operations.’

  ‘Really?’ said Draycott dubiously.

  ‘Territorials. The Rock,’ replied Burke.

  ‘Alcatraz?’ asked Draycott, confused.

  ‘Gibraltar,’ the teacher corrected him.

  ‘Ah,’ said Draycott, looking him over. ‘Nice facial hair.’

  ‘Ditto,’ said Burke.

  ‘Trust me,’ Clive went on. ‘Ray is a good man in a fight. And he’s got some sweet gadgets. So are we ready to rock ’n’ roll or what?’

  Clive raised his hand to Draycott in a high five.

  Draycott winced but couldn’t disguise the eager smile spreading under his moustache. He extended his hand and smacked it triumphantly against Clive’s.

  ‘But no funny business,’ Draycott warned him, pointing at his newfound ally with the long finger of the law.

  ‘Cub’s honour,’ replied Clive, giving the three-finger salute, but knowing full well he’d earned a lifetime ban for tying another scout’s tent to the trailer hitch of a four-by-four. ‘It’s showtime!’

  Chapter 18

  Dusting For Paw Prints

  At just before 2 p.m. Knightley drove the Fairway cab along East Heath Road, past the park in question, with Darkus and Tilly observing it from the back windows. A persistent rain was sheeting down over the trees and meadows, making the leaves shimmer with a sinister quality, and leaving a scattering of pock marks on the surface of the ponds. A few determined dog walkers were the only signs of life on the Heath; their heads down, braced against the weather.

  As they passed the car park, Darkus spotted a small mobile broadcast van with a radar dish, a cameraman setting up his gear and a female reporter clutching her notes – an older version of Alexis, he thought to himself. The same wave of blonde hair, the tailored outfit, the long legs. The news channel’s logo was plastered across the side of the van.

  Tilly almost seemed to read his mind. ‘Tabloid vultures . . .’ she muttered.

  Inexplicably, Tilly had changed her own hair to blonde in the short space of time between Fiona Connelly leaving and their departure to examine her residence. Darkus didn’t know if this was inspired by Alexis’s picture in the paper or not, but it was a trad­itional, Hollywood glamour look for Tilly and Darkus thought it suited her well.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ she challenged him.

  ‘Your hair. It looks very . . . blonde,’ said Darkus.

  ‘I need to keep changing it to avoid unwanted attention, that’s all. There’s nothing more to it than that.’

  ‘I just thought it looked nice,’ answered Darkus, baffled.

  ‘Your comment has been noted.’ Tilly pulled on a knit cap and looked out of the window.

  Also, quite inexplicably, Uncle Bill had insisted on meeting them at the Connelly residence, although it was difficult to guess what he would bring to the party. His powers of detection were limited, his powers of reasoning even more so; and his white Transit van (or mobile command centre, or ‘Moby Dick’ as he commonly referred to it) was only useful for live tracking in real time – and Fiona Connelly’s back garden was most definitely a ‘cold scene’.

  Bill had, however, provided them with an update on Barabas King. Someone matching King’s description was seen leaving a South London warehouse earlier that day in the company of several hoodies and a pack of Rottweilers. The gang were seen entering a convoy of blacked-out minicabs, but the vehicles were soon lost in London traffic, which abounds with blacked-out minicabs.

  It was clear that King was an expert at remaining off the radar. With the clock ticking until the full moon, Darkus was left with an intriguing array of clues, but no line of reasoning to link them all together. The ‘smart’ dogs were acting on King’s orders and picking off senior police officers from SO 42. But who was pulling King’s strings? How did Fiona’s intruder fit in? And who or what was responsible for the atrocities on the Heath?

  As the Knightleys’ Fairway cab pulled up at the gated driveway, they found Uncle Bill already waiting on the street outside, shifting on his feet. Before a word could be exchanged, the electric gates whirred open, welcoming the team to the Connelly residence.

  Knightley parked next to Fiona’s champagne-coloured Volvo estate while Uncle Bill jogged up the driveway after them, finding himself nearly pinched by the swiftly closing gates.

  ‘Glad you could make it,’ said Knightley.

  ‘Would nae miss this for the world, Alan,’ Bill puffed. ‘Fiona Connelly is a national treasure.’ He lowered his voice privately. ‘And a nice plate of rumbledethumps.’

  ‘Come again?’ asked Knightley, having no idea what Bill meant.

  ‘Spot o’ eeksy-peeksy,’ said Bill.

  ‘Again?’ repeated Knightley.

  ‘Braw wifie.’

  ‘Once more.’

  ‘She’s an extremely attractive lady, Alan,’ he exclaimed.

  ‘But I thought you . . . and Bogna . . . ?’ Knightley trailed off.

  ‘A man should never tie himself doon, Alan. Nae at my age,’ said Bill, although it wasn’t clear if he meant he was too old, or too young.

  Darkus, Tilly and Wilbur got out of the cab and surveyed the Victorian Gothic façade of the house. At that moment the front door opened and a dozen golden retrievers, Labradors, collies and terriers flooded out on to the gravel path.

  ‘Lovers! Wait!’ Fiona appeared at the door, a vision in a long flowy skirt and a heaving blouse.

  The dogs leaped about merrily, jumping up on the guests and cavorting in the driveway. Wilbur stood his ground apprehensively, keeping a safe distance, raising his snout to avoid the sniffs, licks and general smothering, until a sharp command stopped the dogs in their tracks.

  ‘Sit!!’

  Knightley and Uncle Bill snapped to attention. The dogs froze and sat down on the spot. All eyes turned to Fiona as her commanding scowl unwound into a gentle smile and she lightly clapped her hands together.

  ‘Good boys and girls. Now let’s give our guests a warm, calm, canine welcome.’ The dogs trotted inside obediently on either side of Fiona’s thick legs whose cankles protruded from the bottom of her skirt, encased in compression stockings and Birkenstock sandals. ‘All of you. Do come in.’ Wilbur sniffed around her feet and wagged his tail by way of a greeting. ‘Yes, that includes you.’ She petted him fondly.

  Uncle Bill doffed his hat and led the way. ‘Ah’m from Scotland Yard, madam,’ he began. ‘The name’s Billoch. Montague Billoch. Most people call me Bill.’

  ‘Well, hel-lo, Bill,’ Fiona warbled. ‘It is reassuring to have a genuine officer of the law in the house.’

  ‘Aye. Ye can call me Monty, if ye like.’

  ‘And ye,’ she playfully imitated him, ‘may call me Fifi. Now how about a cup of tea and some chocolate Hobnobs?’

  Bill turned to Knightley with his mouth hanging ajar. ‘Ye see, Alan,’ he whispered excitedly. ‘Marriage material.’

  Knightley shrugged and headed inside.

  ‘Dad?’ Darkus spoke up
. ‘Tilly and I are going stay out here and examine the perimeter.’

  Fiona turned to address them, linking her arm in Bill’s. ‘I’ve turned the security system off, so you can work unhindered.’

  ‘Good plan,’ Knightley answered and awkwardly followed the fledgling lovebirds into the house.

  Darkus and Tilly looked at each other and silently got to work, heading in the direction of the back garden. Darkus studied the gravel but found it had been thoroughly turned over by paw and foot traffic and ploughed by parking cars. They crossed over a short paved patio and proceeded round the side of the house, arriving at a tall security gate, which had deliberately been left open for them.

  Darkus examined a steel locking mechanism located halfway up the gate with a small pad on either side of it.

  Tilly put her finger on the pad and a red light illumin­ated it, followed by a sharp error tone. ‘Biometric scanner on both sides,’ she explained. ‘Reads fingerprints. Only approved guests allowed.’

  Darkus nodded, inspecting the high gate and the black metal railings on either side. ‘I suppose it must have scaled it then,’ he said, raising himself on tiptoes and looking as high as he could.

  Tilly left him there and continued into the back garden. Darkus caught up with her, grabbing her arm before she stepped on the grass.

  ‘Wait,’ he cautioned.

  The lawn was scattered with several different sizes of dog faeces. Darkus stooped down and surveyed the turf, looking for any bent blades of grass. But it had been well trodden by dogs, gardeners and foxes. There were no obvious tracks.

  ‘It’s a minefield,’ commented Tilly, stepping over the small brown mounds and approaching the high brick wall that encircled the garden.

  Beyond the wall were the dense trees and overgrown foliage of Hampstead Heath, barely tamed beyond the property line. For someone as security conscious as Fiona Connelly, it must have been daunting to have this barren wilderness merely metres from where she slept – with all its nocturnal inhabitants very much awake.

  Darkus followed Tilly, picking his way across the grass and examining the brickwork. He then noted a length of black plastic tubing running along the edge of the wall and vanishing under the turf of the lawn.