Cyril had been working up to this moment for some time, it had not been easy and he had shied away from it… somehow the time and the place had never seemed right but tonight, a favourite restaurant… it would be perfect. He was just slipping his hand into his pocket when Julie spoke again.

  “I know I said no dead body or work talk but I need to chat briefly about Van de Meer. What have you found out about his past?”

  Cyril immediately released the small package he had grasped in his pocket and withdrew his hand. His heart sank. It took him a moment to regain his composure. “Teacher, maths, comes from Hornby. No police record. Heavily into games, board type games not the computer variety.”

  “Partner?”

  “As far as we know, no. Why?”

  Cyril had taken the opportunity to take a drink, his mouth had suddenly become dry.

  There was a brief pause. “He’s not a man.”

  Having just sipped his pint of Black Sheep when she said it he choked briefly trying to keep what was left in his mouth from escaping. “He’s what?”

  “Female, Cyril. DSD. Disorder of Sexual Development. You don’t want me to go through this here but the autopsy clearly shows that although he had the chromosomes of a man, the genitals are not fully formed and he has a uterus. It used to be called pseudohermaphroditis but we use another term today. Thought you should know but whether it has any relevance to the case, I can’t say. I’m checking with his GP and his medical history. Have you traced the family members?”

  “Yes. So he’s a homosexual?”

  “That doesn’t necessarily follow nor apply but this is not…” She could see from Cyril’s expression he was not really taking anything in.

  Cyril was simply staring at the beer before turning his attention back to Julie. He could not believe what he was hearing. She kept eye contact but sipped her gin and tonic as if she had just passed comment on the weather.

  “You’re just full of surprises, Julie Pritchett. Must be why I love you so much.” He paused running his finger around the rim of the glass, a little confused and feeling thrown way off course.

  Julie watched him waiting for some obscure comment but she could only see his lips move; there was no sound.

  “I’ve… sorry, a minute… I’ve been meaning to ask you this for some time but maybe after that bombshell this isn’t the right time even though this place is perfect. It’s been on my mind for a while…” He collected his thoughts, slipping his hand back into his pocket. His fingers found the small box.

  Cyril had not noticed the waiter appear to his blind side. “Mr Bennett, sorry to intrude but your table is ready.” He bent and collected the two drinks before popping them on a tray. “This way, please.”

  Cyril knew the moment was lost along with his appetite and left the box where it was.

  Chapter Twelve

  “May I speak to Mr Jim West, please?”

  “Speaking.”

  Harry explained that although he still wanted to visit the group he needed to meet before that date just to help guide an investigation.

  “I’m free this evening. Is it not possible to discuss it on the phone?”

  “It will take less than an hour, sir.”

  Jim West agreed that they would meet in forty minutes.

  ***

  Harry checked the address was correct and pressed the button for West’s apartment. There was no answer. He tried again. On this occasion it was answered. A voice that seemed to be squeezed through the intercom appeared unnaturally high.

  “Hello?”

  “DC Nixon, Mr West. You’re expecting me.”

  Harry heard the lock electronically open and pulling the door towards him he entered. He immediately smelled the lingering aroma of recently smoked marijuana and paused; it seemed to be coming from the bin store. The door was ajar and the light was on. To his right was a flight of stairs; there was no carpet and a distant sound of rap music echoed in the empty corridor. Harry climbed the stairs taking two steps at a time and quickly saw Jim West standing by his apartment door. A broad smile was the first welcoming experience he had received since his arrival. It did not last.

  “Smelled it did you?” West asked defensively. “If I had a pound for every time I’ve reported the behaviour of some of the families in these apartments I wouldn’t be living here. Sorry, come in. You’re not here to listen to my moaning.”

  The room was immaculate and Harry let his eyes take in the orderly space, something most coppers did. Part of the walls was lined with display cabinets and all of the shelves were filled with hundreds of small figures each beautifully painted. Along the top sat a regimented line of model buildings, many deliberately made to resemble ruins, again painted in the most realistic way. He moved closer and looked through the glass doors.

  “How many do you have?” Harry found himself trying to count those he could see on the upper shelf.

  “I’ve lost count. It gets to you and painting them is as great a part of gaming as actually playing the games.”

  “Must have taken you hours,” Harry said turning back to look in another cabinet.

  “If only. Years, yes, and I have many more waiting to be painted. I order new games constantly, I’m addicted.” He simply shrugged his shoulders.

  “Are those Nazi figures?” Harry pointed to an area near the back.

  “Zombi Nazis, they’re part of a game. Very popular and the detail on those is amazing, works of art in reality.” Jim opened the cabinet door and brought one out before handing it to Harry. “I try to paint wearing gloves but for the fine detail you don’t have the feeling, hence this.” He held out his hands and Harry could see the traces of paint beneath the fingernails on his right hand. There was a long silence.

  Harry shook his head. “Those, dare I say, are absolutely fantastic. Bloody gruesome, but I’m impressed. Are these allowed with the swastika displayed so clearly?”

  “Works of art? They are indeed. Those are made in America. I invest via a company called Kickstarter. Designers pitch their games and players like myself can invest, it means we get the games a lot cheaper if they achieve the funding required or we get our money back. It’s not only games, it supports all kinds of entrepreneurial ventures.” He paused briefly. “Come this way.” He led Harry to another room. “It’s addictive so hence the unpainted figures in all of these boxes. It’s supposed to be the spare bedroom… my office. If you think I have lots here you really don’t want to see what some gamers collect. I am, in their eyes at least, an amateur. Not for the painting, mine take some beating, but in quantity!”

  Harry laughed. “I’ll take your word for it, Mr West.”

  “May I offer you a drink?” Jim asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  The conversation went on for longer than either had planned and when Harry looked at his watch it was going on for ten. He had found the meeting extremely valuable enabling him to consolidate his thinking.

  “You’ve been most kind, Mr West.” Harry turned to leave but then paused. “May I ask if you’re now retired? I don’t see with all of these how you could possibly find time to work.”

  “I am now. I used to have a small business just out of Harrogate town centre but times were getting difficult for independents. The Internet and buying online keeps people away. That’s a story for another time. Before that it was the theatre. Are you still planning to come along on Tuesday? You’ll then have a better understanding of what it’s all about.”

  “I’ll look forward to that, thank you. One last question.” Harry turned and pointed to a large green model figure standing in splendid isolation.

  Jim West laughed. “The figure of all figures in my opinion. Cthulhu is a fictional, cosmic entity born from the magical, imaginative mind of H P Lovecraft. It was created in 1928.”

  Harry raised his eyebrows. “Look it up when you’ve a minute.” Jim scribbled the name on a piece of paper and handed it over.

  “Sorry for the lingering aroma of illegal drugs in the passageway but if you know a friendly officer it would be appreciated.”

  “I’ll have a word.” Harry stuck out his hand. “Thank you very much, it’s been most valuable.”

  “Gamers can be very dedicated and quite fanatical as you can see. We take great pride in the manner in which we play and the way we present our games. If I can help in any way don’t hesitate…” He let the words drift into the hallway allowing the smell of cannabis to take their place. On closing the door he moved back to the green figure and lifted it with a degree of reverence. “They come sniffing about but…”

  ***

  Alan Bowen and David Hale were comfortable in each other’s company and were set for the challenge. Alan checked his watch; they were early. The room was booked from 7.30. They had a coffee and waited, discussing what tactics they might require to beat the time. Each was becoming increasingly more excited as they approached the venue.

  They had decided to play the escape room based around the Pharaoh’s tomb and it had been more complicated than either had initially imagined even though it was graded four star difficulty. They had not expected such poor lighting and some of the clues had been concealed under the fairly thick layer of sand that covered the floor. At 8.11 David located the small, faience-like ushabti figure and held it up triumphantly. They could now make progress and look for the way out.

  “Any clue on the figure?” Alan asked reverently holding the blue figurine to the nearest light source. He let the light illuminate the turquoise blue of the plastic figure.

  “Four letters but they’re difficult to make out. Give me a moment. Could say Fake but it might be nothing.”

  Alan came over and lifted his glasses as if it would help him to discern the letters. “Take. Look the figure has no left hand, lost at the wrist, so take left or right-hand wall?” He looked at his partner, a huge grin appearing. “We have time. Left or right?”

  David moved to the right-hand side of the sarcophagus that was positioned in the centre of the tomb. Various artificial stone blocks were stacked on either side. He then noticed that two had lids held closed with a combination lock comprising four tumblers.

  “The numbers must be on the side.” Each man searched the hieroglyphs that were decorating the sarcophagus.

  “4… 7… 9… 4.” Alan called out as David fumbled with the tumbler.

  “It’s open!”

  Inside the box was a sheet of papyrus giving the final clue. Within minutes they were out. The clock had stopped at fifty-one minutes. Each man shook hands and congratulated the other.

  “That was more difficult than I’d originally thought. Should be a five star escape.”

  After handing the figure in and receiving a small certificate recording their time they left. A beer was definitely in order.

  “Coach and Horses?” David did not need asking twice. He checked the time. “Train isn’t for another hour, we might manage a couple.”

  ***

  On leaving the venue, the two men were so relieved at beating the time, they had taken little notice of their surroundings. Although not fully dark, the streetlights and the shop window displays cast coloured light onto the road. The way was easy to follow, both were excited and their laughter seemed to echo around the buildings.

  He simply followed cautiously, occasionally stopping to look in shop windows to ensure the gap between them remained constant. Seeing them turn into the pub he waited a moment, glancing at the skeleton riding the penny-farthing cycle that hung on the outside wall of the building.

  The Coach and Horses was busy but then it always was. The two men were standing by the bar.

  “Excuse me.”

  Alan and David turned and noticed the man waiting to get to the bar and they moved to one side creating room. “Sorry.”

  He smiled. “Thanks. Did you succeed?”

  David turned to look at the man. “Succeed?”

  “As I was coming here I noticed that you two came out of the escape rooms. Great fun. It’s not been here long, couple of months maybe. Had me beaten the first time I went in. Totally bamboozled.” He turned away and ordered a beer.

  The atmosphere changed immediately and both David and Alan turned and introduced themselves. The man simply nodded saying nothing in return but he quickly took a blue figure from his pocket. He handed it to the nearer man.

  “Bloody hell, the ushabti figure! That was our lifeline. Without finding that we’d have been buggered.” He looked at the back of the small figurine and read what was on the back… take. “Fifty-fifty chance of getting it right in the time we had, it was an important call,” Alan laughed.

  “Or wrong,” said their new friend. “All chance. I got it wrong and ran right out of time. I thought it would be where the hand was missing… story of my life. I blamed the guy I was with mind.”

  “How come you’ve got the figure?”

  “Consolation prize, I guess. You keep it, you deserve it more than I do.”

  Both men looked at each other. “The victor’s trophy,” Alan said holding it aloft. “Let me buy you a drink in return.”

  “No, I’m expected home.” He drank the remains of his glass and turned to go. “I have a friend who’s creating his own experience in the hope of making it a business. It will be here in Harrogate and he’s looking for enthusiasts to try out the games he has designed. If you’re interested I could pass him your contact details. He says that they’ll be no push over, unlike many around the country. Up to you.”

  Alan and David looked at each other and then at the figure. Alan picked up a beer mat from the bar and jotted down their names and his mobile number.

  “It’ll cost him a pint if we escape,” David suggested.

  The man smiled, tapped the beer mat and shook their hands. “He’ll be in touch. It might cost you more if you lose.”

  They simply laughed. “Two pints?”

  Nothing else was said.

  Watching him leave David looked at the figure.

  “What do you think?”

  “Let’s wait and see. If he calls we’ll think about it then.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sky augured rain. Large clouds seemed to hang in billowing bags threatening to burst and spill their contents at any time. DC Rodcliff Massiah pressed the remote for the garage door as two CSI officers readied themselves. He had already dressed in the appropriate disposable clothing so as not to compromise the scene. He was unsure what to expect other than the three bikes, probably bits of decorating equipment and some packing cases. According to the brief it would be simple and routine.

  Rodcliff Massiah had been born in London. His parents, both natives of the parish of St James, Barbados, had moved to England and the city the year he was born. Always diligent at school and conscious he was an only child, he knew his parents had always expected the best from him. The early years had not been easy for his parents and he felt a real weight of responsibility. He had always had a dream of becoming a police officer. He had heard stories from his own grandfather who had attained the rank of Inspector in the Barbados Police Force, spending most of that role stationed at Holetown Police Station. Seeing his grandfather in uniform and being shown round the station were the catalysts for his wanting to join the force. After five years in three different roles in The Met he had transferred to plain clothes and moved to Northallerton.

  Policing the capital had been a challenge that filled his expectations but he was eager to see his career develop. Colleagues had warned him the move up north would in fact prove to be a retrograde step but he thought differently. To him, opportunities were what you made of them. Enthusiasm and dedication would always be appreciated and noted. On his leaving, a close friend had given him a gift and on the card she had written, Never let the doubters win, Rodcliff! It had become his mantra and so far, he had proved them wrong.

  He and the attending CSI had been called back to Carruthers’s flat after receiving the information regarding the garage. He watched as the door slowly rose and on this occasion was allowed to go up to its limit. There was a slight flutter in his stomach as he remembered they were part of a murder investigation. He could see the bikes and the rack of clothes lit by the single LED light that had automatically illuminated as the door was activated, but within minutes it had dimmed.

  The CSI moved forward lighting the area with strong free-standing battery lamps, but these would soon be augmented by the garage lights themselves once the switch had been dusted for prints. Within fifteen minutes they had worked through the first section of the garage. Tread mats had been placed leading up to the inner door which was left ajar. Massiah was looking into an inner room whilst awaiting permission to enter and he was amazed by what he saw as the two CSI started their work.

  “Looking at this lot we could be here for some time. And to be honest I have a strange feeling about this place.” Her gloved hand pointed to the row of skulls positioned along the shelf as she slipped her mask below her chin.

  Massiah nodded his head inadvertently as he counted twenty-two skulls all equally spaced and yet all of differing sizes.

  “They’re not real,” the CSI chuckled, “but what a strange bloody thing to find, particularly knowing the owner was an undertaker.”

  “Brought his work home with him that’s all… don’t we all,” retorted the other sarcastically. “Come in but tread careful…” He did not finish. “Oh you beauty. We have a camera here poking out from behind this one.” He traced the lead to the socket on the wall. “Looks to be a sound and motion jobby. Probably records brief clips when triggered by either movement or sound. Stored on an internal mini disc I imagine. We’ll secure that and process as soon as.”

  Massiah simply watched as they photographed the camera, marking its position before bagging it. They had been photographing and sampling for about fifty minutes when they noticed something.

 

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