CHAPTER FIVE
BED & BREAKFAST
FROM THE DIARY OF CARL KOLCHAK
August 11, 11:04 P. M.
I left Geoff at the bar finally, after a few hours trading war stories about the good old days of journalism. By the time I left, he looked like he'd need to wheeled up to his room on a baggage cart. I'd be lying if I said I was in much better shape. I collapsed into my bed as soon as I reached my room. In seconds, I was asleep, without even a hint of a thought spared for UNIT, strange suicides, or the horrific hangover I would inevitably suffer the next morning.
I wasn't the only one trying to sleep. Dr. Heinrich Schoenfeld, age 57, on loan from Munich to the Natural History Museum in London, had spent what was for him an exciting day categorizing pottery shards found in a Welsh fougou. The fougous had been Dr. Schoenfeld's favorite hobby for as long as he had known of them, and the chance to finally work with them left him as gleeful as a small child left unescorted in a candy store.
The following day, he was to leave on a trip to Wales, to actually visit the fougou where the pottery had been found. The sheer anticipation of actually seeing the object of his fascination left him unable to sleep. He literally could not wait for morning to come, so that he could be off.
Perhaps if he had been just a little less excited and a little more tired, he might have had the chance to complete his work.
August 12, 7:30 A. M.
Sophie Matheson, 17, was the daughter of Judy Matheson, the woman who ran the Camfield Bed & Breakfast, located about 2 miles from Victoria Station, not far from London' Buckingham Palace. It was a modest B & B, offering friendly service and a central location as its main selling points to prospective guests.
Sophie helped out during her school vacations, acting as a maid. Every morning since Dr. Schoenfeld's arrival, she had knocked on Dr. Schoenfeld's door to deliver his breakfast. Usually, he was awake before she got there. He would call her in and chat eagerly about dead cultures while he ate and she cleaned.
Today, he was silent. And when Sophie entered the room, she discovered why.
Dr. Heinrich Schoenfeld was dead, hanging from the ceiling by a noose of bedsheets. Sometime during the night, he had committed suicide.
The Doctor's first thought was that it was an image straight out of a painting. Sophie sat in a rocking chair, clutching a well-worn stuffed Dalmatian under her arm while staring thoughtfully out the window at the overcast afternoon sky.
The Doctor stood just outside the doorway, Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart at his side and Judy Matheson, the girl's mother, hovering behind them both.
"You'll be gentle with her now," Mrs. Matheson urged in a whisper. "It was hard enough for her to talk to the police about it. And, well..." She trailed off, eyeing the Brigadier with his military mustache and spotless uniform.
The Doctor gave the woman a gentle smile. "I promise not to upset her," he said. "Brigadier, perhaps you would like to look around Dr. Schoenfeld's room while I speak with Sophie." He said it in the same genial tone. But he spoke firmly, brooking no argument.
The Brigadier nodded. "A good idea. We may as well conclude our business here as quickly as possible. If you would show me the way, Mrs. Matheson?"
The woman led the Brigadier down the hallway, leaving the Doctor alone at the teenage girl's door.
He knocked on the door gently, earning him a glance from her at last. He gave his most gentle smile.
"Hello there," he said. "May I come in?"
"You don't look like a cop," she said listlessly.
A trace hint of Welsh in her voice. Very light, a less trained ear probably wouldn't have picked it up. The Doctor hadn't heard any such hint in the mother's voice, so it had to be from the father's side.
"I'm not with the police," he agreed, venturing into the room. "I'm the Doctor."
"Doctor?" Sophie frowned. "Did mum call you? Because I'm not sick, and I don't need a doctor." Then, suspiciously: "Besides, if my mum did call you, what were you doing with that soldier bloke?"
"So you did see us," he said, pleased. "Your eyes were so intent on the window, I wasn't sure you had."
"I could see your reflections in the glass."
"Well, you are right, Sophie. I am not a medical doctor, and your mother did not call us. That soldier bloke, as you called him, was Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, a colleague of mine. We work with the United Nations Intelligence Task Force. UNIT."
"Shouldn't that be UNIT-F?"
The Doctor chuckled, rubbed the back of his neck. "Well yes. Strictly speaking, I suppose it could be."
Sophie's frown deepened. "You said intelligence. You're not going to go telling me that Dr. Schoenfeld was a Russian spy or something like that, are you?"
He shook his head. "Not at all. Dr. Heinrich Schoenfeld was a leading authority in his field, a highly respected archaeologist with an excellent reputation. I've read several of his articles, I had a great deal of respect for his work."
That earned him the first hint of a smile he had seen from her. "He was a nice bloke," she said. "Most older fellas, they treat either treat you like a 5 year old or they act like you're invisible. Or they go all pervy on you. Dr. Schoenfeld, he'd just talk to me. Like a person, y'know? I liked him."
"I'm sure he would be glad to hear it." The Doctor glanced about for a place to sit. After a moment, he settled on the edge of the bed.
A small bed, decorated with stuffed animals of all varieties. He found a clearing beside a white rabbit. At least, he thought it was a clearing until he sat down and felt a distinct lump beneath him. He reached under and pulled out a stuffed red cat. He looked into its button eyes, bemused.
"Quite the menagerie you have here," he remarked.
Sophie smiled again. "That's Little Red. Because he's little and he's red, y'see? Boyfriend won him for me at the fair last June. The rabbit's Peter--like Peter Cottontail. Gram and Gramps gave him to me when I was 8."
"And that little fellow?" Indicating the dog that she still held in her arms. "What's his name?"
Sophie hesitated. "You probably think I'm a big baby, with all these stuffed animals."
"No," the Doctor said, very seriously. "We all need something to give our affection to. Something to hold onto, when we feel alone or helpless. I'm guessing that fellow you're holding is very precious to you."
She hesitated again, nodded. She blinked a few times, as if fighting back a tear.
"Tell me about him?" The Doctor took care to keep his tone mild.
Sophie looked down at the Dalmatian. "Dog," she said, her voice small. "He's just called Dog. I was thirteen, and my appendix went bad. Had to stay over at the hospital. I was... I was scared, y'know? My dad gave him to me. Told me he'd be my guard dog, he'd keep me safe. Last thing he gave me, before he left us."
And then she did cry, clutching the dog tight. "Look at me, crying like a baby!"
The Doctor crossed to her, handing her a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. She blew her nose, then looked down and noticed that the handkerchief was made of pure silk.
"Oh God." Mortified. "I'm so sorry--"
"Nonsense." The Doctor cut her off, patted her shoulder. "That's what a handkerchief is for."
Sophie still looked worried about the soiled handkerchief. "I do have another," the Doctor assured her. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the top of another silk handkerchief. "See?" He pulled it out--and another handkerchief emerged, tied to the first. He pulled again, revealing yet another. And then he pulled hand over hand, until a long chain of white silk handkerchiefs came out of the small jacket pocket.
Sophie laughed in spite of herself.
"Now what am I going to do with this lot?" he wondered, holding the chain. "I know." He leaned forward and draped the chain over Sophie's head, wrapping it around her neck like a great white scarf. Then he gently touched the tip of her nose with his forefinger. "See? Plenty where that one came from."
He sat back on the edge of the bed, his face settling back into a serious expression. "Now I'm going to ask you a few questions. Probably very similar to what the police asked you earlier. Are you all right with that?"
Sophie nodded, her own face growing serious again to match his. Serious, the Doctor noted, but no longer quite as glum or haunted.
He leaned forward. "You were the one who found Dr. Schoenfeld, I know that much. It must have been a horrible thing to see." She nodded tightly. "I won't ask you to relive seeing him like that, I can get the details I need from the police report. But I need to know: Did you touch or move anything in the room after you entered it?"
She shook her head emphatically. "I couldn't even move. As soon as I saw him, I just dropped the breakfast tray. It was like it fell out of my hands by itself, y'know? I just stood there and screamed my head off. My mum came running, saw, and hauled me out of there fast as you please. Then she called the police. No one went in again until they got here."
"Good, good," the Doctor said. "What about Dr. Schoenfeld's mood? Had he been depressed or agitated lately?"
"Oh, no. He never got out-of-sorts about anything that I saw. He always seemed like such a happy fella, that's why it's such a shock. And last night, he came in really excited about something. Something to do with pottery. From the way he talked, it was a big deal for him."
"Hmm." The Doctor mused, thought for a moment. "What about visitors? Did anyone new come into his life recently? Or did anyone drop out of his life suddenly?"
"Not as far as I know," Sophie said. "Any people he sees, he pretty much sees at the museum. Here, he mostly sticks to himself. Stuck to himself, I mean," she added glumly.
The Doctor considered for a moment more, then nodded. "Very good."
He stood up. "Thank you, Sophie. You've been extremely helpful."
Sophie stood too, seeming surprised at the speed with which he had ended the interview.
"Is that all you're going to ask me? The police had lots more questions than that."
"You told me exactly what I needed to know."
Sophie looked down at the silk handkerchiefs, started to pull them off to give back to him.
"Keep those," he told her. "As a memento, if you like. Or for anytime you're feeling sad and need a good cry. After all, that's what they were made for."
"I looked over the scene," the Brigadier told him. "Everything consistent with a suicide. A bit odd there was no note. But not everyone leaves one, I gather."
"Oh, it was a suicide," the Doctor agreed. "I never doubted it."
They were sitting at the kitchen table of the bed and breakfast, sipping tea that Judy Matheson had made for them. Good tea, the Doctor noted. Rich, black, and strong. She had been quite grateful when the Doctor told her that Sophie would be just fine, and even more grateful when the Doctor gave her his direct number at UNIT and volunteered to come out anytime Sophie felt the need to talk to someone.
"Do you think Dr. Schoenberg was involved in the theft?" the Brigadier asked.
"Schoenfeld, Brigadier. It means 'beautiful field.' And no, Dr. Schoenfeld's reputation was impeccable, I doubt very much that he would be involved in anything illegal."
"Then why are we here?" This earned the Brigadier a sharp look from both Judy Matheson and the Doctor. He cleared his throat, continued with his point. "Yes, terrible tragedy and all that. But it does seem a damnable waste of time, particularly when we have a theft to investigate."
"We are investigating, Brigadier. Do you have that photograph of Dr. Regan with you?"
More of a prompt than a question, really. Until this matter was resolved, the Brigadier would have that photo with him everywhere he went.
The Brigadier removed the photo from the pocket of his uniform, passed it to the Doctor. The Doctor glanced at it, then set it down on the table, his eyes fixed on Mrs. Matheson.
"Do you recognize this man?"
Mrs. Matheson gasped. "That's Mr. Jones!"
The Doctor shook his head. "I fear not. This man's name is Alwyn Regan, until yesterday a well-liked and well-respected member of the staff at the Highwater Medical and Research Centre. He's also wanted for questioning in a rather delicate matter. Is he a guest here?"
"He checked in last night, checked out early this morning. Just before..." Her face went ashen. "Sweet Mary!
"Just before your daughter delivered Dr. Schoenfeld's breakfast?" Mrs. Matheson nodded. "Tell me. Which is his room?"
"He stayed in Room 7. The room right next door to Dr. Schoenfeld."
The man lurked in a house across the street, watching intently out the curtained window. He had been watching ever since the grim man in the uniform and the tall man in the black cloak had arrived. These were the hunters, the voice told him. These were the ones he had to fear.
The woman who owned the house had been reluctant to let him in, at first. When he pushed his way in, she had said something about calling the police. But he had removed the crystal from his pocket and let it share its music with her. Within a few moments, the light in her eyes had died forever, and the house had been his alone.
The tall man and the soldier had been inside the Bed & Breakfast for over an hour. Looking for clues, no doubt. Sniffing for a trail to follow.
The man was not worried, and neither was the voice. He had left no traces behind him. All he had done, the entire night long, was sit in front of the crystal, listening as it sang to him. And when he had left that morning, he had taken the crystal--and with it, the music--with him.
The tall man and the soldier finally emerged. They talked for a while. He was too far away to hear their words, but he could guess what was being said. The soldier was going to have some men canvas the neighborhood, doubtless with his picture, searching for some sign of him. The tall man believed the effort was futile. The soldier agreed, but felt it was necessary to go through the motions.
So many of them just go through the motions, the voice said. They aren't even really alive. They don't know themselves, and they don't care to know.
The tall man gestured to his blazing yellow car, and both men began to walk to the vehicle.
That one is different. He studied the tall man in the elegant suit of clothes.
"He is not a soldier." Perhaps he spoke the words aloud. Perhaps he merely thought them in his head. It made no difference; the voice heard him, either way.
He is not like them. He is... other.
"Not..." What was the word? "Not human?"
He is more like us than he is like them. He will help us to escape.
"He looks like them. He works for them. Why will he help us?"
He will have no other choice. Follow.
The man waited until the hunters had climbed into the yellow car. Then, under the voice's careful direction, he took the woman's car keys and moved out to her car.
He stayed as many car lengths behind the yellow car as possible, while still keeping the car in sight. The elegant man was intelligent, but even he would not be expecting his quarry to follow him. As long as he was careful, he would not be seen.
The man let the crystal sit on the seat beside his, singing a beautiful medley for his ears alone.
FROM THE DIARY OF CARL KOLCHAK
A note for the uninitiated: Never attempt to go drink-for-drink with an old school Scot. I slept late that morning, and woke to the worst hangover I'd had in the better part of a decade. If I had wakened to find myself locked inside a bass drum at the Macy's Day Parade, the pounding couldn't have been any worse.
I called down to room service and croaked out an order for tomato juice and bland, dry toast. By the time the room service waiter arrived, I had barely managed to struggle into the hotel's complementary robe, and had already decided that this was a day where I would stay in my room doing as little as possible.
It was a good plan for a beat-up old journalist with a killer hangover. If only I had thought to take the phone off the hook...
Carl had to stifle the urge to scream as the ringing of the telephone reverberated through his skull. He clasped his hands over his ears, reeled over to the infernal device, and picked up the receiver with shaking hands.
"Hello?" he rasped.
"Mornin' mate!" Carl cringed again as Geoff Mackenzie's too-cheerful voice boomed out of the receiver straight into his ear. "Nice story of yours, that I read in this mornin's paper. Aimin' to show the rest of us up as the pathetic bastards we are?"
"Geoff?"
"Well, it ain't Princess ruddy Anne. Y'know your story got me in a hell of a lot of trouble. My editor called and bawled me out for gettin' outscooped by a bloody Yank."
"You actually... saw my story? All the way out here?"
"It's the talk of the fuckin' town. You know Jane Greer, the ITV anchor who was their news celebrity yesterday evenin'? Well when I took breakfast today, half the room was booin' her and quotin' your article."
Carl groaned.
"You're a hero, mate. Every journalist who was there yesterday either wants to shake your hand or pound you in the nose, or both. So enjoy it while it lasts, cause it never does."
Carl groaned again.
"So you called to congratulate me?" he rasped.
"Not hardly. Just shook yourself out, did you? Well, it was a hell of a night, last night." Geoff's hearty laugh was like a buzz-saw going off in Carl's brain. "Take a shower and a glug of citrus. Then meet me at the Camfield Bed & Breakfast."
"The what and where?"
"The Camfield Bed & Breakfast. It's in the center of the city, I'll give you directions."
"What's... what happened?"
"Weird shit, mate. Like what we talked about last night. And I ain't sayin' more than that on the bloody telephone. You interested?"
Carl squinted his eyes shut, which seemed to help his jumbled thoughts to focus. Geoff Mackenzie... Weird shit...
...UNIT?
Carl sat up. "You better believe it, I'm interested," he said. "Hang on, let me grab a pen."
As Carl copied down the address and Geoff's directions, even through the haze of his hangover, he felt the old excitement rising in him. Something was afoot. Not a dull conference, not even a clever angle on a fairly straightforward news item. This was Carl's real calling: the chase. This was what he lived for.
"I'll be there in half an hour," he promised.
And after the briefest of cold showers, he gulped down his tomato juice, tossed the uneaten toast in the garbage, and all but ran out of the room, pulling on the jacket to his seersucker suit as he scrambled down the hall to the elevator.
The first thing Carl noticed as he got out of the car was the police. Two police cars were pulled up outside a small house a few doors down from the Camfield Bed & Breakfast. A few uniformed policemen walked in and out of the house, most of the rest just seemed to be standing around outside. Two young children, a boy and a girl, stood by a young female officer, looking glum and bewildered.
"What's the story?" Carl asked Geoff, who was lounging against the brick-and-mortar wall of a shop, smoking a cigarette.
"That's what drew me down here this morning." Geoff grinned. "You might say I heard it through the grapevine. You see those two kids there with the lady copper?" Carl nodded. "Well, if you'd gotten your ass down here about 15 minutes sooner, you'd have seen their mum taken out of there in the meat wagon. Suicide."
He took a puff of his cigarette, proffered it to Carl. Carl shook his head.
"Good on you, mate," Geoff grunted. "Filthy habit." He took another puff.
"So who was the woman?" Carl asked.
"Eh, nobody really. Monica Nelson, 23. Divorced, working two jobs and taking in laundry to try and make ends meet for her and her two little ones. Dropped out of school to marry her ex when he got her pregnant, and he turned out to be a drunk and a loser. Kids came home from school to find her with her wrists cut open. Poor little sods."
"Sad, yes," Carl said, feeling a flicker of annoyance. Geoff had hauled him down here with a hangover, for this? "But I could name you ten stories from Chicago almost exactly like it, just off the top of my head."
"And I could swap you twenty more from Aberdeen!" Geoff replied sharply. Then, in a more even tone, "Yeah, I didn't think there was much here either. Was packing it in and getting ready to go back to the hotel, when I heard a couple of the lads talking. Something about not expecting this kind of business without a full moon. Nosy bastard that I am, I asked 'em what they meant."
"And?"
"Two weird things. Monica Nelson had a car. The car's missing. You don't get many people killing themselves to steal their own car now, do you?"
"And the other thing?"
"Monica Nelson is only the second suicide on this street today. The first was there." He pointed to the Camfield Bed & Breakfast. "And you'll never guess which very familiar faces co-opted the scene almost as soon as the bloody coppers arrived this morning."
"UNIT?" Carl's eyes narrowed.
"Aye." Geoff nodded. "Still think there isn't a story here?"
Geoff ground out his cigarette on the wall, dropped it to the ground, and stepped on it with his heel for good measure. "Come on, let's go."
As they reached the door to the Bed & Breakfast, Carl took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height, forcing his face into the most officious expression it could manage. He indicated to Geoff to follow his lead.
"What're the names of the people who run this place?" he asked.
"Mrs. Judy Matheson," Geoff replied. "Divorced, but she still goes by Mrs."
Carl nodded his thanks, then rang the doorbell. A moment later, the bell was answered by a plump-faced middle-aged woman.
"Mrs. Matheson?" Carl inquired.
"Yes?"
"Carl Kol-uh-Kolcinski, INS." Carl had long since perfected the speed at which to flash his press card so that it would be visible long enough to look official, but not so long as to actually be read. "This is my colleague, Geoff Mackenzie."
"INS?" She seemed puzzled.
"Internal, uh, National Security Service," Carl said, thinking quickly.
"You sound American," Mrs. Matheson observed.
"Uh, yes. I'm American, and my friend here's from Scotland. We're a, um, international organization. We work with the United Nations."
"United Nations!" Her face lit up instantly, as if those two words explained everything. "You must be with the UNIT people from this morning."
"Yes, yes we are," Carl said confidently. "We have a few follow-up questions."
"Certainly, certainly. Come right on in."
Mrs. Matheson ushered them into the Bed & Breakfast and led them through the sitting room that doubled as a lobby.
Geoff leaned in toward Carl and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "Both internal and international? That's some organization we belong to, mate."
Carl ignored him as they followed Mrs. Matheson into the kitchen.
A teenage girl was sipping a glass of orange juice by the sink as they entered. She gave Carl and Geoff a sharp look, then looked back to her mother.
"It's OK, Sophie dear," Mrs. Matheson said reassuringly. "These men are working with the men from this morning. They just have a few additional questions."
Sophie set down her glass and crosses her arms tightly, as if half-hugging herself.
"Sophie here found the body," Mrs. Matheson explained. "But then, you know that already, don't you?"
"Uh, yes. Yes, we do." Carl looked back at Sophie, who eyed him apprehensively.
"So you found the body?" he said.
"Y-yeah."
Carl was preparing a detailed mental list of questions when Geoff stepped forward.
"I'm sure you already gave a statement this morning," Geoff said to the girl. Sophie nodded. "D'you have anything to add to it?"
She shook her head. "He was hanging from the ceiling when I walked into his room this morning," she said. Her eyes started to tear. "Nothing more I saw than that."
"Then I think we'll just talk to your mum, here."
She flashed Geoff a grateful look, kissed her mother on the cheek, and excused herself.
Carl gave Geoff a harsh look. Geoff shrugged.
"Hard thing for a girl that age to see," he explained. "I got one that age back in Aberdeen. Wouldn't let any copper or press man put her through the mill, if it wasn't necessary." He turned to Mrs. Matheson "She seems to be holding up pretty well, though."
"You should have seen her this morning," Mrs. Matheson replied. Her tone was warm and grateful as she spoke to Geoff. "She spent most of the morning in her room, just looking out the window, refusing to say a word to anyone. I was worried, I don't mind saying. Didn't even want to let those UNIT men into talk to her. That soldier bloke was right harsh, didn't want to let him near my Sophie. But the Doctor, he was so good with her. She's been acting more like herself ever since he left."
"Doctor?" Carl looked over at her. "Not... Dr. Smith, by any chance?"
Mrs. Matheson frowned. "That might've been his name. The soldier bloke, he mainly just called him Doctor."
"Tall, white-haired man?" Carl pressed. "Clothes like Liberace, nose like Cyrano de Bergerac?"
Mrs. Matheson bristled. "I thought he was very distinguished," she sniffed. "He was a proper gentleman."
It was clear from her tone that she considered Carl anything but a "gentleman."
She turned back to Geoff, apparently having decided to ignore Carl. "He was the reason the UNIT men came in the first place."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, that soldier bloke with him, he thought Dr. Schoenfeld was just a suicide. Actually accused the Doctor of wasting his time."
"But the Doctor wasn't wasting his time, I'd wager," Carl said.
The woman's eyes narrowed as she looked back at Carl. "I thought you said you was working with 'em?"
"Well, yes."
"Then why would you 'wager' he wasn't wasting time. Shouldn't you already know?"
"Well, uh..." Carl stammered, his mind casting about for a rapid way to paper over the discrepancy.
"It was just a manner of speech, ma'am," Geoff interjected in his most congenial tone. "Mr. Kolcinski here is, as you noted, an American. They tend to be a touch more careless with their words, over there." He fixed Carl with a look as he emphasized the word "careless."
Carl flushed slightly. "Yes, well. About the Doctor."
"You do seem awful interested in him." Mrs. Matheson still regarded Carl harshly, though Carl noted that her suspicion seemed to have eased.
"As you say, he is the one who knew that Dr. Schoenfeld's death was more than just a suicide. Without him, we wouldn't be here now."
"What did he ask you, ma'am?" Geoff said, giving her a smile. "It really is important."
She smiled back at Geoff, and once again spoke only to him as she answered. "Well, the Doctor was very interested in the guest staying next door to Dr. Schoenfeld. An odd duck, that one. Came in very suddenly last night. Didn't call ahead, no luggage, nothing. Said his car was broken down, and he needed a place to bunk the night. Of course I was suspicious, but... well, he paid cash, didn't he?"
Carl felt a rush of anticipation.
"This guest," he said. "What was his name?"
"He gave his name as Jones," Mrs. Matheson replied.
"But it wasn't Jones, was it?" Geoff pressed. Carl could hear a reflection of his own eagerness in Geoff's tone.
"The soldier bloke, he had a picture with him. Same man, plain as day. Said his name was Regan."
"Regan," Carl repeated.
"Yeah."
"Is that a first name or a last?"
Mrs. Matheson's eyes narrowed again, fixing on Carl. She looked back at Geoff, then at Carl again. "I think maybe I should have another look at that I. D.," she said.
Carl touched the brim of his straw fedora. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Matheson," he said quickly. "You've been most helpful."
"Thank you, ma'am," Geoff echoed, then hastily followed Carl out the door.
"Oi!" Mrs. Matheson shouted after them. "Come back here! I'll call them UNIT fellas on you, I will!"
But Carl and Geoff were already bustling out the front, running back to their cars. By the time Mrs. Matheson had located the card Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart had given her, the two reporters were already peeling off down the street, putting as much distance between themselves and the Camfield Bed & Breakfast as they could manage.
Sergeant Benton was showing Regan's picture to the umpteenth person that afternoon when the two cars shot past him. He turned his head, watching them disappear around a corner.
"Got a bank nearby?" asked the man he had stopped.
"About a mile that way." The man pointed.
"Huh." Benton grunted. "If you'd pointed right behind us, I'd have guessed they'd just robbed a bank, way they were driving."
"Maybe they were both in labor."
"Yeah." Benton chuckled. He held up the photo again. "So, any recollection? He'd have been wearing a sort of beige suit and red tie."
The man shrugged. "You see lots of beige suits and red ties, going to work in the morning in the morning and coming back in the afternoon. They all kind of look alike. Gets to where you don't even notice the people."
"Yeah," Benton said with a sigh. "I know exactly what you mean. Thanks anyway."
He moved on down the street, keeping an eye out for another likely person to question.
Benton had known, of course, that this assignment was a futile effort. Necessary, of course; you had to cover all the bases. But with the head start Regan had on them, there was no realistic chance of turning up anything useful.
He and his men had fanned out in a square, starting three blocks out from the Camfield Bed & Breakfast and gradually closing in. Knocking on doors, stopping people on the street, showing Alwyn Regan's photo to everyone they met.
But as the man he just left had noted, a thirtyish man in a business suit would blend in just about anywhere.
Benton resigned himself to the half-asleep mindset best suited to hopeless grunt work. Going through the motions. It was in that mindset that he arrived at the center of the square, the Bed & Breakfast.
He was immediately brought up to full alertness by the sight of two police cars, pulled in outside a house down the street from the Bed & Breakfast. The police were just getting ready to leave the scene.
Benton affected his most easygoing slouch as he approached a man in a police sergeant's uniform.
"What's the story?" he asked in a lazy drawl. He flashed his UNIT I. D.
"Suicide. Young woman." The policeman filled in the details about the death of Monica Nelson. "Tragedy, really. Had two young kids, they were the ones who found her, coming home from school. Great thing for them to come home to."
"That's rough," Benton agreed.
"Yeah. Ex is a useless drunk, too. Hope there's a grandmother or an aunt or something who can take 'em in. Otherwise, they're liable to end up wards of the state."
Benton pulled out the picture of Regan. "Did you happen to see this man hanging about?"
The policeman looked, shook his head. "Not that I recall. We were here over an hour, though. Attracted a fair crowd of gawkers. You think this is something other than a suicide?"
"Don't know," Benton replied. "We're just... looking into a few things in the immediate area."
"Well, there was one funny thing."
"What's that?"
"She had a car. A '73 Volkswagen. It's missing. We sort of figured someone from around here nipped in before the kids got home, saw she was dead, and decided to help themselves. Still, it's unusual."
Benton's easygoing slouch instantly vanished. He drew himself crisply, the picture of a military man. His lazy drawl sharpened into a confident, commanding tone.
"Here's what you are going to do, Sergeant. You are going to give me every detail you have about that car. Then you are going to call your superiors and put every man on the search for that missing car. From now until it is found, that car is your top priority. Understood?"
"Now see here, my superiors--"
"Will be getting a call from my superiors within the hour. And I think we both know that my boss can beat up your boss. Let's not waste time, please. Just get your men on it, it'll be official soon enough."
Benton took down the information about the missing car. Make, model, year, color, license number. Then he marched a discreet distance away from the police and pulled out his radio.
"Trap One to Greyhound, Trap One to Greyhound. Over."
The Brigadier's voice crackled through the radio. "This is Greyound. Go ahead, Trap One."
"The rat has slipped the trap. Over."
A short pause. "About as expected. He had quite the head start."
"There's more, sir. Our rat got away with some cheese."
A long silence. "Clarify, Benton. Over."
"We have another body, sir," Benton reported bluntly. "Just like the others. And our target, one man on foot? Well, sir, he's not on foot anymore."
The man crouched in the woods across from UNIT Headquarters, watching and waiting with dispassionate, patient vigilance.
He had followed the tall man's distinctive yellow car from the Bed & Breakfast, all the way through to the outskirts of London. When the car was waved through a guarded security gate, the man had driven past. He had neither slowed nor stopped, he had been careful to do nothing to draw the soldiers' attention to him. But he had watched the rear-view mirror closely, noting which of the base's buildings the tall man and the mustached soldier entered.
Our target, the voice had exulted.
He had driven for two more miles, until he passed a field near a wooded area. Then, at the urging of the voice and the prompting of the music, he had abandoned the car in the field and returned to the military base on foot, staying in the trees to avoid being observed.
"When do we move?" he asked the voice.
Patience, the voice counseled. Too many soldiers. We are too vulnerable.
"There will be fewer at night." He didn't know why he was sure of that. But it seemed right, somehow. Why? "At night, they sleep. They will have only a few men on duty then."
Then we wait for night.
The music was now muffled, the crystal wrapped up and tucked into his pocket once more. But come nightfall, the voice promised him... come nightfall, he would experience the music as he had never experienced it before.