The Investigators: A Lucas Voigt mystery

By Dick Morris

Sherlock Holmes meets Wyatt Earp meets Jack the Ripper meets Lucas Voigt in this Lucas Voigt mystery. Two loves stories run though the plot. 

In present day London, boy genius and amateur detective Lucas Voigt befriends time travellers (or are they out of work actors?) Sherlock Holmes and Wyatt Earp and, after various adventures, sets out to track down a new and terrible serial killer, and solve for once and all the mystery of Jack the Ripper... 

About 60000 words.

Also available as a  paperback.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dick Morris
• Release date: Jun 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781501486692

Dick Morris

Dick Morris served as Bill Clinton's political consultant for twenty years. A regular political commentator on Fox News, he is the author of ten New York Times bestsellers (all with Eileen McGann) and one Washington Post bestseller.

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The Investigators (A Lucas Voigt mystery)

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The Investigators

A novel by Dick Morris

Copyright 2013 Dick Morris

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, please contact:

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Published by: dick morris – carla bowman - books

Other books by Dick Morris:

Pelican - Escape or Die*

Dark Harbour*

The Black Hats*

The Killers*

The Curse*

The Castle*

The Ruin*

The Weather Station*

Blood Island*

Cursed Slaughtered Hunted*

*Also available as paperbacks

––––––––

This is a work of fiction, and all characters are imaginary. Any resemblance they might have to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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Lucas drew his gun and fired three shots. Three figures fell. That made twenty hits in twenty shots. Every alien invader of the planet Earth outwitted, outguessed, eliminated. And in record time. God! Computer games were easy.

He snorted with disdain and closed the game. What did children see in them?  He clicked on the little bishop icon to bring up Deep Fritz. Chess. Let’s play a something grown up, he thought. He had time now that he had finished his homework, and his voluntary extra homework, to work on his Elo rating, which was currently 2350, making him an International Master. Not bad for a twelve-year-old. His aim now was to raise himself into the Grandmaster category. But the travel alarm on his desk interrupted his thoughts.

Lucas got up from his seat, went to the window, and peered out. For a moment, his own face - round, bespectacled, capped by curly fair hair – was reflected back at him in the glass. A larger face loomed behind his own. Topped by a halo of unruly white hair, it had the topography of a walnut. Albert Einstein. Lucas had fixed a picture of the great theoretical physicist above his bed. On another wall, was one of Beethoven, and on a third was one of Leonardo. One day, Lucas hoped to be famous too.

He pressed his nose to the windowpane, placed his hands either side of it to cut out the reflections, and looked out into Philbeach Gardens. A fine drizzle fell, and leaves glistened on the London plane trees lining the road.

What would it be tonight, he wondered. White duck? Or red chicken?

A light came on in the room directly opposite, on the other side of the road. Mister Turnbull entering his second-floor front bedroom - as he always did at about ten o’clock most evenings. Moments later, Turnbull pulled the curtains apart and Lucas caught sight of the tall, bald figure. Lucas had been watching Mister Turnbull for several weeks now.

Sometimes Lucas would see Mister Turnbull taking mysterious packages to and from his battered green van – the second worst vehicle in the road – and always under cover of darkness. At other times, he would see him peeping out between his always drawn curtains. Mister Turnbull was up to no good. Of that, Lucas was certain.

Mister Turnbull placed a green plastic parrot on the windowsill and retired from view. A green parrot, Lucas noted. That’s a new one. He looked to his right. Any moment now, if he were right... He waited. Seconds later, a vehicle turned into Philbeach Gardens from Warwick Road. Lucas watched as the white van drove up to Mister Turnbull’s house, slowed so that the driver could get a good view of what Mister Turnbull had placed in his window, and accelerated away. Interesting. 

And now a vehicle came from the other direction. A red Ferrari, moving quickly with its wipers going and lights on. Lucas watched admiringly as the car drew level with Mister Turnbull’s, slowed down, then drove to the end of the road, paused for a few moments, turned into Warwick Road, and passed from view. A decent car. When his internet business got going, and when he was old enough to drive it, he would buy a car like that. His eyes swung back to his mother's car, which was parked outside the house. A battered and rusting Renault.

He studied the car with loathing. Being taken to school in that embarrassed him. The thing stood out like a tramp at a society ball. All of his school friends had four-wheelers, Mercedes, classy drives. But they had that. He thought of his father. Charles Henry Voigt, now dead. Bluff, pot-bellied, happy go lucky Charles Henry Voigt. London Transport worker. Lucas had loved his dad. He’d been ecstatic when Charlie had taken him to the park to play football, hopeless though Charlie was with a ball. But he’d been dismayed by Charlie’s chronic gambling, his long periods spent in betting shops and his constant stream of telephone calls to bookies. And the trouble he had paying off his debts. Charlie had been the cause of the family’s penury... Lucas froze. Where had he come from?

A man stood on the pavement, next to the Renault, directly in his line of sight and he wondered why he hadn’t seen the fellow approach.  He had been staring at the Renault and quite suddenly the figure was there as if it had materialised out of thin air. The man wore a tweed hat with the brim turned down and an old style raincoat with an additional layer over the shoulders, the sort of thing Lucas had only seen worn by eccentric business secretaries and eccentric historians, and the fellow seemed oblivious of the drizzle now turning into rain. He looked up and down the road, and Lucas could just make out a thin face and an aquiline nose. Next, turning, he looked up and down the road again before seeming to notice the Renault. He peered at it closely, walked around it, and studied it from every angle. As if it were something special. Go on, Lucas thought, steal it! But now the figure looked up and down the road again. Ah! He had spotted the hotel signs further down the road.

Lucas watched him walk to the first of the hotels, look up at it for some seconds, and go slowly up the steps, and pass from view.

*

Lucas pressed his face to the glass and watched and waited. Two minutes later, he saw what he expected to see. The tall man emerged from the first hotel and went into the next one. Minutes later, he came back out of that one too and stood in the road for some moments, apparently undecided what to do next. Finally, he turned and started walking back the way he had come. Lucas hurried out of his bedroom, hurried even faster down the stairs, ran through the hall, opened the front door, and hurried down the steps into the road. The tall man closed rapidly.

Excuse me, Lucas said, loudly, but do you want a room?

The tall man stopped and looked down at Lucas. His features were sharp, and his cold grey eyes transfixing. For a moment Lucas felt as if he were being sized up for breakfast by a hawk. Yes, I do, the man said, but I'm afraid I do not have money.

That's not a problem, Lucas said, sympathetically. We often take in homeless people. You are homeless, aren't you?

Well not exactly, the stranger said. But there do not appear to be any Hansoms about, right now.

Please come in, Lucas said, gesturing towards the open front door. He led the way, waited beside the door for the stranger to enter the hall, and closed the door behind them. You can hang your hat and raincoat there, he said, pointing to the coat rack in the hall. The stranger hesitated, nodded, and then did that, revealing that he wore a tweed suit and a waistcoat over a pinstriped white shirt, and a loosely knotted red tie.  Glancing in the mirror, he smoothed down his thinning black hair, spent a few moments staring at it worriedly, and then turned his attention to his face, seemingly being more pleased, if not much more pleased with that, before turning and following Lucas down the hall. Lucas pointed into the living room. You can wait in there, he said. My mother will be back soon.

Thank you. The stranger walked into the living room.

Please sit down, Lucas said.

Thank you. The stranger sat down in an armchair. 

Sorry about the state of the place, Lucas said. They got most of the furniture from second-hand furniture shops. It's a disgrace.

It's all right, the stranger said. My own place is not much different.

Excuse me, Lucas said, I have to set my camera.

He hurried upstairs, went into his bedroom, and placed the tripod in front of the window. Next, he adjusted the camera angle, switched on the time-lapse recorder, and went back downstairs. The stranger had got up out of the armchair and gone to the television set. Lucas watched him from the doorway for several seconds as he looked around the back of the set and then fiddled with the buttons until the set switched on. He jumped visibly and took two steps back.

It's only an old set, Lucas said, walking into the room. My friends have much better sets than that. I'm quite ashamed of it when they come round.

There came the sound of the front door opening and closing.

My mother's back, Lucas said.

He went out into the hallway to greet her. Hello, mum.

Hello, darling! Cathy Voigt put down her shopping bag, hung up her raincoat and bent down and kissed Lucas on the cheek. What have you been up to? And we have a visitor, I see?

She was a slim woman in her late thirties, fair-haired, with a seemingly perpetual frown. She was nervy, moved quickly, and had a tendency to worry. But she was also generous, warm-hearted, and invariably kind to anybody who happened to be in trouble. She would give them her last penny if she felt it helped them. And she always saw the best in everybody. Right now she was reasonably well off, having received compensation from London Transport in respect of Charlie's death together with a small pension from Charlie's employer's fund. But even so her cautious nature prevented her splashing out on anything she regarded as luxuries and, in any case, the income she got from renting out rooms in this five storey house rarely covered the rent and the costs of running the place. 

There's a gentleman waiting for you in the living room. He wants somewhere to stay.

Cathy put her hand on Lucas' shoulder and followed him into the room. The stranger got up and smiled. My name is Morton Jennings. I'm an actor, he said. Your son says you might have a room for the night.

Cathy smiled. Yes, we do. It's nothing special but it's somewhere you can sleep.

I'm afraid there is one problem, Jennings said. I don't have money on me right now.

That's all right, Cathy said. You can have the room for twenty pounds a night, and you can pay us when you are able too.

Thank you, the stranger said. But twenty pounds is rather a lot.

I thought it was reasonable, Cathy said.

The stranger seemed to do some quick thinking. Yes, of course, it's reasonable.

Lucas will show you to the room.

If you will come this way, Lucas said.

Lucas led the way into the hall, where Jennings collected his hat and raincoat, and then up the stairs to the second-floor room, which was on the same floor as his own but at the back of the house.

He opened the door and stepped aside. Jennings walked in. The room was small, with a window overlooking the garden, a single bed, a wardrobe, a table and chair, a radiator, and a bedside table.

This looks just fine, Jennings said. He hung his raincoat and hat on the clothes hanger on the door, and now, from behind him, Lucas could see his hair had thinned quite badly. There's a bathroom across the passage, Lucas said. And feel free to use the kitchen.

Thank you, kindly, Jennings said.

Oh, and please call me Lucas.

I shall indeed, Sir.

So, you're an actor, Mister Jennings?

Yes.

But I think you are much more than that.

Do you?

Yes.

So, what do you think I am?

A model for a famous fictional character?

Jennings had gone to the window to look out at the garden. Now, he seemed to freeze for a moment. He turned and came back into the room. You are smart, young man, he said. Can you tell me the first letter of the fictional character's first name?

S, Lucas said.

And, can you tell me the first letter of the fictional character's second name?

H, Lucas said.

"You are smart, Jennings said.

Yes, I am, Lucas said. I have a very high IQ. And I have considerable powers of deduction. I'm an amateur detective you see. He waited a moment. And you are my great idol, Mister Ho...

Jennings held up a finger.

...Mister Jennings, Lucas corrected. 

Most people think Mister Ho...the fictional character... was based on a doctor, Jennings said.

Yes, they do, Lucas said, but I’ve done some research and discovered he was  based on you.

Jennings stared thoughtfully at Lucas. Can I ask you never to tell anybody what you've found out, Lucas? I would prefer that nobody ever knew. You see, I would rather become famous as an actor than a detective.

You can count on me, Mister Jennings,

Please call me Morton, Lucas.

Thank you, Morton. There are many things I would like to ask you.

"And there are many things I would like to ask you, Lucas. But look, can we leave it until the morning, because I’ve had rather a long day?"

Yes, of course, Morton, and I’d better go to bed, otherwise there will be trouble. Good night, Morton.

Good night, Lucas.

*

Cathy walked past the kitchen door and saw Jennings standing at the entrance to the living room. The television seemed to have transfixed him. 

If you'd rather watch something else, go ahead, switch over, she said.

No, it doesn’t matter, Jennings said.

Would you like something to eat? Cathy asked.

Yes, I would, Jennings said.

Cathy went into the kitchen and Jennings followed.

And would you like a cup of cocoa?

I'd prefer tea if you have it.

Please help yourself.

Jennings seemed to have difficulty finding the tea bags. They are there, in the red tin, Cathy said. And the kettle has just boiled.

She went on making her coffee and then glanced back to see Jennings tearing open a tea bag and dropping its contents into the teapot.

So, where are you from, Mister Jennings? she asked.

London Docklands, Jennings said. Originally...

And, you're an actor?

Yes, I do mainly Shakespeare roles. It doesn't pay well.

Cathy said. I love him. I used to be an English teacher."

Did you? Do you find he's popular? Jennings asked.

Only for the cultured.

Jennings sighed. I suppose it has been so for a long time.

So, you know the plays well? Cathy asked.

Every one of them. Would you like me to perform something for you?

How about Gloster's speech opening Richard the Third?

Very well, Jennings said. He thought for a moment and then began.

Now is the winter of our discontent... And he did the rest of the speech up to Clarence's entry.

Word-perfect, Cathy said, although she thought the delivery was a trifle hammy.

And now, I would appreciate some supper, Jennings said.

You've earned it, Cathy said. There's some stuff in the fridge, and more stuff in the cupboard over the worktop," Cathy said.

Jennings started looking around.

The fridge? he asked. Where is it?

Cathy pointed to the Lec unit under the worktop. There. On the top and second shelves.

Jennings bent down and opened the fridge door. Cold, he said.

Yes, cold. Cathy looked on as Jennings took a slab of Stilton cheese from the unit, and a loaf from the cupboard and made himself a meal of bread and cheese. The kettle boiled, and he half-filled the teapot.

There's milk in the fridge, and sugar in the cupboard, she said. You can eat it in here at the breakfast bar, or take it into the living room.

I'd prefer to do that latter if you don't mind.

Not at all. There's a tray over there.

Cathy prepared her own supper and took it into the living room, where Jennings sat eating, the tray on his lap, his eyes fixed on the television screen.

*

Lucas woke at seven and immediately got out of bed and stopped his time-lapse recorder. Sitting on the end of his bed, he rewound the tape and then played it back at normal speed. He watched fixedly as the minutes flashed by, the little clock in the lower left-hand corner of the screen showing the rapidly passing time frame. Several cars whizzed up and down the road before one o'clock, and then the traffic rapidly became less busy. A handful of pedestrians quick-stepped their way up and down the pavements, and lights flicked on and off in windows across the road, gradually becoming less frequent as time went by. Lucas' main interest was in the house directly opposite his own: Mister Turnbull's residence, and, more specifically, anybody coming and going to and from that address. 

Now, the little clock in the corner of the screen showed two-thirty, then two-thirty-one, two-thirty-two... Then Lucas pressed the remote to stop the tape. He rewound it five minutes and then replayed it at a slower speed. He watched intently. Then, he said, loudly to himself: There's another one.

He rewound the tape and played it back once more. This time even more slowly.

He watched, eyes fixed on the pavement outside his home.

Finally, he stopped the tape. He was right. There was another one. He ran the tape once more, slowed to a