The Baskerville Whale

By Julien Willis

A series of unexplained deaths. A popular new video game. Could the two be linked?

One Sunday morning, Detective Inspector Auguste Allinson receives a call from his trainee partner from the local hospital, where a senior doctor has expressed concerns regarding an increase in unexplained deaths.

Allinson is due for retirement but, trying to delay its arrival, decides to take on the dead end case – but what seemed like a simple case to crack turns out to be more complicated than he could have ever imagined. His investigations lead him to a games company, an online role playing computer game, and the virtual town of Saltwitch.

After several more deaths, a meeting with a mysterious suited man and a close escape on Dartmoor, Allinson is forced to play the game for real, but who can he trust in this virtual world? Can he find the murderer? Can he stay alive?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jan 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781803138671

Book preview

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CHAPTER FORTY

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER ONE

Waiting

He still didn’t believe in a God, but something inside him had changed. He had a new outlook on life and death. Did either exist or was it just an illusion, a game in which he was just a player?

He shifted position and winced as the cold metal of the bench touched the skin peeping through the gap in his hospital gown. But this was no hospital. The staff patrolling its corridors were not the doctors and nurses you’d find in your local general. These were specialists - not in the pursuit of prolonging life, but more delaying death. Death in its normal form, anyway.

He yawned. He hadn’t slept well. Was it due to fear or expectation? He wasn’t entirely sure. He had dozed, not knowingly falling asleep or remembering when he awoke. Just closing his eyes, opening them and noticing that an hour had passed.

His mind wandered to the events of the past two weeks. Events that had led to this very bench, where he now sat, waiting. Two weeks ago he had been so close to his own demise, his own version of death. But now he was looking forward to a new life. He smiled at how it had all began with a simple phone call and how the answer had been staring him in the face…

CHAPTER TWO

Another Death

A large man appeared in the doorway, waving a lantern in the misty darkness, its flame flickering. A boy of no more than fourteen trotted through the haze, pulling an empty wooden cart. The man disappeared back inside while the lad turned the cart around. He shivered in the cold air. But he didn’t have to wait long.

The lantern reappeared along with two burly gentlemen who were carrying a body. The body was dressed smartly in a velvet tunic and slacks, a woollen cape loosely tossed around it. It was thrown onto the cart which creaked under the extra weight. .

The lad showed his palm. The man carrying the lantern sighed and rummaged around the corpse’s pockets, eventually finding what was required, dropping it into the outstretched hand. The lad studied the coin with a pained expression, but the carriage was paid.

The lad pulled the cart off, straining at first with the new weighty cargo, but was soon disappearing, back into the mist. The gentlemen returned to their stools at the bar. The inn keeper extinguished the lantern and returned to his duties, pouring two pints of a golden ale into two pewter tankards.

No one spoke, no one cried, no one mourned. This was the way it was, the way it had always been and, with no one to say otherwise, the way it would always be.

CHAPTER THREE

How It Began : Sunday Morning

1

The triumphant tones of the Dam Busters March played out in Auguste’s ears. His mind directed the melody as if he was conducting the orchestra himself. He could see and hear the bombers flying overhead on their way to glory.

His rejoicing faltered.

Something slid across his body. In his slumber his eyes were open but he couldn’t see. The sensation stretched across him. The trumpets stopped.

Auguste woke and sat up in one quick motion. He had been dreaming, dreaming of lying with a woman, with Marion

Auguste laid back down and closed his eyes. His thoughts drifted back to her and to what had woken him so abruptly. The Dam Busters March started up again. The tune meant something.

Auguste suddenly became alert; he grabbed his mobile and grimaced. Why was he ringing on a Sunday morning? He pondered whether he should just ignore it, but he knew that he would just ring again. If he was ringing on a Sunday, it had to be important.

‘Hello, Tom.’

Auguste listened, his brow furrowed and his head started to shake gently.

‘Sorry, but why is he worried about deaths by natural causes?’

The head shaking got worse.

‘Terrorist attack! Is he sure and why does he need to speak to me now? Can’t it wait until tomorrow?’

Auguste listened a little more before resigning himself to the fact that he would have to say goodbye to his relaxing Sunday. He felt the space next to him, empty and cold. As it had been for many years now.

2

Detective Inspector Auguste Allinson hadn’t rushed. They could wait. He had showered and shaved. He was no model but he was old school - shirt, tie, suit, and bristle-free. His father would be happy.

He wasn’t a big man, but he walked tall. He made sure everyone knew he had arrived. He wasn’t pompous, he was effective, a man of the people, not a caricature, more Morse than Poirot.

He strode into the emergency department. Sunday mornings weren’t the busiest. The rush of alcohol-related admissions had sobered up, only the comatose ones remained, spread-eagled where they could be stored until consciousness returned. Auguste craned his neck to catch sight of his apprentice and soon located him; it wasn’t difficult. At six foot five and waving his arms around like a stick insect on speed, he was impossible to miss.

Detective Constable Tom Hamilton was in training; a very capable young officer who had come straight into the force from university. That was the way it happened now. Auguste had done twenty years of walking the streets to get to where he was and it irked him, to put it mildly, that Tom hadn’t had to.

Auguste had practised his opening line in the car. It wouldn’t entertain the doctor but would certainly brighten his own mood. He stretched out his hand towards the doctor but at the crucial moment an orderly swung between them, eager to complete his next errand.

‘Sir,’ said Tom. "Thanks for coming. This is Doctor Clive Livingstone who I spoke about on the phone. Dr Livingstone, this is my boss, Detective Inspector Auguste Allinson.’

‘How do you do, inspector.’

The doctor thrust out a hand. Auguste took it - the doctor held on for longer than was necessary. Auguste wondered what he was hiding. Why was he so desperate to speak to him?

‘Thanks for coming at such short notice and on a Sunday.’

‘No problem. My colleague was saying something about terrorism.’

Doctor Livingstone shifted his gaze around the populated room.

‘Come into my office; we can talk in there.’

He smiled briefly at Auguste before disappearing through a door to his left. Auguste and Tom followed.

The office was small and immaculate. Books were arranged neatly on shelves in ascending order of size. Certificates of expertise hung from the walls, all evenly spaced. Livingstone leaned against his desk, photographs displayed in each corner, a computer screen occupying the centre ground. A durable black desk mat with writing pad and pen neatly placed side by side nestled in front of their technological successor.

Auguste memorised the office’s layout. He couldn’t recall seeing anything quite like it before.

‘I don’t want to cause any panic, and I only said terrorism because I needed to speak to you urgently.’

‘So why am I here then, doctor?’

‘Yes, of course. I’m worried about the amount of unexplained deaths we’ve been experiencing lately.’

‘Unexplained?’

‘Well we know the cause of death, just not the why.’

Auguste stared intently at the doctor. For someone who had instigated the call out he was being rather vague.

‘The cause of death being what exactly?’

‘Sorry, I thought your colleague had explained.’ Livingstone glanced at Tom who shifted nervously. ‘They died of heart failure’.

Auguste sensed his patience starting to dissipate.

‘Surely that’s one of the most common causes of death? Nothing to get in a flap about.’

‘But not for healthy people with no heart issues. These people’s hearts just seemed to have stopped beating for no reason. Well, no medical reason anyway.’

‘So you’re saying that they had help in stopping, in some way. Like... poisoned?’

‘Not by anything we can test for, all tox screens came back negative. Hence my nervousness and this meeting.’

‘I’m still not sure what you expect me to do, doctor?’

‘Detect, inspector, that’s what you do, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but detect for what?’

The doctor leaned into Auguste, his fists clenched by his side.

‘Murder, that’s what, Murder.’

His gaze slowly turned to his office’s window and the stationary nurses, orderlies and conscious patients staring back at him.

3

The daily market at the heart of Saltwitch was in full swing. Voices jostled to be heard, bodies moving in some unrehearsed dance. Merchants displayed their latest offerings high above their heads so all could see. Everyone was in motion, everyone looking after themselves, everyone ignoring everyone else.

All except one; he stood alone, half in the shadows, half watching. Watching for something out of the ordinary, something that didn’t fit, something that would give them a clue. A clue to who may be next.

Something caught his eye, just away from the market. Not enough to be obvious but just enough to be heard but not overheard. Just enough to make a difference. A difference he was looking for.

Two men stood arguing. One was known to him, a common pick pocket. The other was new in town. He was dressed like the other stallholders, perhaps a bit smarter, a bit more worthy.

The stallholder looked angry, possibly the latest victim of the pickpocket. They finally separated, exchanging indignant gestures. The pickpocket disappeared into the maelstrom of the market. The stallholder headed in the other direction, into the quieter streets of Saltwitch, seemingly unaware he was being followed.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sunday Afternoon

1

Auguste studied the modern detached house from the safety of his maroon Ford Cortina Mk2. The car had been his father’s pride and joy. It was showing its age, but Auguste treasured it.

A bouquet of red and blue balloons bounced around the doorway, trying to fight its way free. Their string leash, tethered to the door’s brass knocker, was not going to make their escape an easy one. Above the doorway a rainbow banner proclaimed Happy 16th Birthday.

Auguste eased himself out of the car and ambled up to the front door. He rang the bell and waited.

Some god awful noise played inside which jumped in volume as an inner door was opened. Auguste could see a shadow of movement through the glass.

The door opened and Auguste felt the full force of the bass and drum beat. A woman stood before him, pretty and younger than himself by a good decade. She smiled at Auguste in surprise.

Auguste smiled back with admiration.

‘You’re early.’

‘No! I’m on time.’

‘Good you can help me with the food.’

Auguste followed her into the kitchen.

‘So! How are you, Marion?’

‘Good thanks, you?’ Her eyes asked a different question.

‘I was up early anyway. How are the kids?’

‘Fine. On a Sunday? Or has the wrath of God finally caught up with you and you’ve been summoned to repent your sins?’

‘No, not yet and hopefully never will.’ Auguste devoured a speared cocktail sausage and got a rap on the hand.

‘Hey, I’ve not had breakfast’.

‘You alright? You’re not ill are you, Auguste? Have you seen a doctor?’

‘Yes, no, and I saw one this morning.’

‘Hi ya, old man.’

A lanky boy slapped Auguste on the back. His t-shirt was emblazoned with a dark, forbidding motif, presumably associated with the row that continued to belch out from the other room.

‘Happy birthday, son.’

‘Cheers for the game by the way, it’s lush.’

He grabbed some cans from the fridge and disappeared back into cauldron of noise.

‘What game?’

‘The one you owe me fifty quid for.’

‘Fifty...’

‘Daddy.’

‘Hi, precious, and how are you?’

‘OK.’ His daughter was older, gorgeous, smart, gifted and pregnant.

‘How’s the bump? Any word from the bastard?’

‘No, Dad and if he had got in touch I wouldn’t be interested anyway.’

‘Well, I’m not happy with the situation.’

Marion scooped up some bowls of food and carried them into the other room.

‘Well, Auguste, when it comes to absent fathers, you should know, you’re the expert!’

‘That was your decision. Don’t bring me down to that bastard’s level; I offered to do the right thing.’

‘You did indeed, now go and get yourself a beer and chill out. It’s a nice day, go sit in the garden.’

Auguste selected an ale from the fridge.

‘It’s OK dad, I don’t need him or want him. I have want I want.’ She caressed her bump with her hand and kissed her dad on the cheek. ‘Love you.’

She was her mother’s daughter all right; she would be alright, but if he ever found that bastard. Auguste wandered into the garden; he loved the fresh air but not the sun, and so retreated to the conservatory, leaving the door open.

He relaxed for the first time that day. The door to the lounge was shut but proving to be an ineffective sound barrier. Through the glass he could see Marion orchestrating the dishing up of food and drinks to the hungry teenagers. He gulped down half his bottle.

He would have married her. Would have provided for her quite happily. Would have played the part of loving father quite admirably. But she hadn’t wanted any of it. She was an independent woman, adaptable, resolute, strong. She had wanted to bring the children up on her own and perhaps she was right, he may not have been much help anyway and Marion had done an excellent job. He loved her and admired her equally.

His mind drifted back to their first meeting. The bar in Soho. He was on the lookout for uncomplicated sex and she, well, she was not what he was looking for. He wanted a buxom brunette and she was a petite blonde. He wanted simple and easy and she most definitely wasn’t. But they hit it off; she was funny, opinionated but caring, forceful but understanding. She excited him and yet scared him at the same time. His pulse raced, captivated.

The sex was good, gentle, passionate, meaningful. Auguste’s hands glided around her velvet curves, hers pressed hard against his chest, pushing herself up and him deeper into her. His body convulsed with ecstasy.

When he awoke the next morning he felt different, satisfied. He didn’t want to send her away but he knew he must, that was part of the ritual, his fate accompli.

But his bird of paradise had already flown.

Auguste felt violated, stripped of his victory. He stormed through the flat; perhaps she was still there. But her clothes were gone. No goodbye, not even a farewell note and he didn’t even know her name. Their names had never been important, until now. He was a detective for God’s sake, he could find her, he would find her.

Over half a year passed and nothing. He had gone to the bar every night for two months but she hadn’t appeared. He had cruised the streets in some vain hope, but there were only false alarms and many embarrassing apologies. He had trawled mug shots at the station just in case she had a record, but that too proved fruitless.

But like most things you’ve lost, you find them when you’re not looking for them.

He had been invited to the wedding of one of his classmates from the academy. They had been assigned different stations but had kept in touch and often met up for a drink when shift patterns allowed. He was marrying a flight attendant from one of those new-fangled airlines. The boom in foreign travel was in full swing, but Auguste wasn’t interested. In his mind there was nothing wrong with a day trip to the coast, paddling his feet in the sea, trousers rolled up to the knees, a bowl of cockles, fish and chips, a pint and a bit on the side. But he wasn’t anti-foreigner, just anti-change.

He was mingling with the other guests, exchanging chase tales with others he recognised, when he saw her, just her head, through a gallery of others he didn’t know or didn’t care to know.

He stood and stared while thoughts, memories and hormones sorted themselves out.

‘Drink, sir?’

A waitress distracted him with a tray of champagnes flutes. He exchanged his empty one for two full ones and set off at a pace in the direction he last saw her, his head bobbing to-and-fro though cracks between arms and bodies. His movements became jerkier, the stems of the flutes tapping together, like some ritual mating call. He stopped, his face redder, his breathing rapid. He turned around and there she was, her back towards him. He must have walked straight past her, too busy concentrating on the big picture and not what was right in front of his eyes.

She was talking to another man; was that her husband? He was much older than her. Their manner suggested not and he was soon whisked away by a portly lady under some indifference, obviously a more notable contender for his spouse.

He was just behind her as she turned. She stopped dead in her tracks, staring with shocked eyes as his turned downwards to her bulging abdomen.

‘Auguste!’ she said.

‘I... I never knew yours.’

‘You were never meant to!’

‘Dad.’

Auguste shook, staring at the bump, and looked up into his daughter’s eyes.

‘Dad, Mum wants you; we’re going to sing happy birthday.’

2

The cloak of a moonless night was descending over Saltwitch. The flicker of candles from the Hogshead Inn cast a glow through the windows, but no further. A weary stallholder, tired after a trying day, approached, his footsteps silent. Jeers and laughter emanated from the open doorway and dissolved again as the door banged shut.

A few moments later a figure, its shadow revealed in the fermenting light puncturing through the tavern wall, followed him inside.

CHAPTER FIVE

Sunday Evening

The 20:16 from Leeds to London carved its way through the Hertfordshire countryside. Couples on their way home from a weekend away, families returning from a day out, businessmen, wanting to get an early start the next day, trying to blend in with their casual shirts, ill-fitting shorts and socked toes peering out of worn sandals, their suits neatly pressed for the morning rush so they could assimilate with their own kind. Human chameleons.

The train disappeared into a tunnel with a whoosh of displaced air.

In the darkness a boy watched a light zig-zag in the air, as if in a dog fight with an unknown foe. It swooped down and then up again. It hovered for a moment and then dropped like a stone.

Ten seconds later the train emerged from the gloom, but the boy had already lost interest and returned to torturing his younger sister. He and the other passengers didn’t notice the man in 35C, slumped and alone, his light now extinguished.

CHAPTER SIX

Monday Morning

1

Detective Inspector Allison strode through Whitehall Gardens. It was a brisk but pleasant five-minute walk from the Embankment tube station towards the Yard. To his left the Thames flowed proudly through the capital while on his right the elegant French Chateau-styled Royal Horseguards Hotel gleamed, its pale brickwork prominent against the bright blue sky overhead. The gardens were in full bloom, alive with colour. Sunflowers stood together in congregation in one of the centre circular beds. Auguste filled his lungs.

He crossed Horse Guards Avenue and the magnificence of the hotel was soon obliterated by the ugliness of the Ministry of Defence. Its tone, not helped by the variety of staid monuments that adorned its facade, stirred feelings more akin to George Orwell’s dystopian nightmare than modern day London. In front of him loomed the iconic revolving sign of the Yard and the almost compulsory tourist taking a photo.

Auguste was one of the lucky ones; he had his own office, although he did wonder whether it was more to do with keeping him away from everyone else, than his more senior position. It certainly wasn’t the largest of spaces but it sufficed. There were numerous files on his desk arranged in orderly stacks of three or four. It looked haphazard but it wasn’t.

His secretary - well, she wasn’t his personal secretary but one he shared with a couple of other detectives - popped her head round the door.

‘Morning, Auguste.’

Marjorie was fifty-five, neatly dressed in an old-fashioned, but up to date sort of way. Her paisley-rimmed glasses hung loose from a cord around her neck. They had known each other for twenty years and she had been instructed to call him by his first name.

‘Morning, good weekend?’

‘Yes, you?’ Marjorie approached his desk, coffee cup in one hand, a letter in the other. She placed the coffee on the desk and handed Auguste the letter. ‘I think they mean it this time.’

Auguste watched her walk briskly out. He looked at the envelope, sighed, unlocked a drawer in his desk and placed it inside, on top of a pile of identical others, and took a long slug of coffee.

Marjorie’s head reappeared. ‘The chief wants to see you.’

Auguste looked up and nodded. That meant only one thing and it wasn’t good.

Chief Superintendent Simon Thatcher was a good boss as they went, an upstanding and decent man, but still no one liked to be in his office; he was the commissioner, after all. His office was a very spacious affair, comfy seats, drinks cabinet and pictures of the Yard’s most venerated.

A chair was conspicuously pulled out at an angle in front of Thatcher’s gleaming mahogany desk. Although the word desk didn’t really do it justice. Thatcher was looking out of his window, cup in one hand, saucer in the other. They had both worked for the police for over forty years, and both knew the importance of a strong cup of coffee to start the day. You never knew when you’d get the next one. He was looking over the river at the London Eye, watching it slowly rotate.

‘I hear that you were called out Sunday morning?’

News always travelled fast in the Yard.

‘Yes, sir, a bit of a wild goose chase though.’

‘Good, wrap it up quickly then.’ He took a sip of coffee, gently replacing his cup on its saucer. ‘HR have been on the phone to me.’ He took another sip of coffee. ‘They tell me that you’re being difficult.’

‘I’m just taking my time, sir.’

Thatcher twisted round and leaned heavily against his desk, the cup banging against its polished surface.

‘But that’s the point, Auguste, you don’t have much time left. None of us do.’

‘It’s a big decision.’

‘And one you don’t have any choice in. It happens to us all. I can’t bloody wait. You should consider yourself lucky.’

‘Lucky! More like a death sentence.’

Thatcher’s body tensed and he loomed over Auguste.

‘You’re retiring, man, not dying.’

Auguste pushed his chair back and stood up, his cheeks flushed.

‘In my book it’s the same thing,’ he said, and stormed out.

2

Auguste was leaning back in his chair, face upturned towards the ceiling, eyes shut. In his mind he was admiring The Creation of Adam by Michelangelo on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. He had been there once, years ago, on a good relations exercise with the Vatican Police. You didn’t have to be a lover of fine art to appreciate its magnificence.

‘Sir!’

Auguste jolted forward in his chair, eyes wide open.

‘Hamilton! Are you trying to scare me to death?’

‘No, sir! Sorry.’

‘I know I haven’t got long left, but I would like to try and make it till the end of next week.’

Tom eyed Auguste carefully, lowering his head.

‘You OK, sir?’

‘Yes, just contemplating my existence. What do you want, anyway?’

Auguste downed what remained in his cup and shivered as he swallowed. He had obviously been contemplating longer than he’d thought.

‘The case?’

‘What about it?’

‘Well, how do you want to proceed?’

‘I’m not even sure we have a case, but if we presume that we do, and as I might not be here much longer, what would you do?’

Auguste leaned forward towards Tom, eye-to-eye. Tom hesitated and moved back.

‘Well, I would get a list of the victims so far and check for correlations.’

‘Good, then get to it, and when you have something, pick me up from Marion’s.’

3

The house was quiet. Marion was in the kitchen, tapping energetically away at her laptop, photographs strewn across the table. She paused momentarily to shuffle through a few of the photographs until she found the one she wanted.

The doorbell rang. She peered out the window. Auguste.

‘What does he want?’ She ran her fingers over the keyboard and, after one final check, she let him in.

‘What do you want, Auguste? The children are at school.’

Auguste sat at the table, glancing over the photographs. They were all of foreign locations, beaches, empty streets, panoramic views and locals going about their everyday tasks.

Marion topped up the kettle, her blonde hair clipped up on top of her head. Auguste liked it that way, it showed off her long, slender neck.

‘Well?’

‘I was just passing, so I thought I’d pop in, have a chat. Didn’t get to talk to you much yesterday.’

Marion studied the view of the road from the kitchen window.

‘And how were you just passing? How did you get here, flying carpet?’

‘Tube.’

‘That’s not passing, Auguste, that’s stalking.’

The kettle clicked off.

‘Well, I’m working, so get to the point or bugger off.’

‘What’s the article on and who for?’

A cup of coffee landed in front of him

‘It’s on what I want it to be on and for none of your business. But I am busy and you’re interrupting me.’

‘I got another letter this morning about..’ He looked up at Marion. ‘Well, you know..’

Marion sat down heavily.

The doorbell rang again.

‘Fucking hell, the first quiet day I’ve had in a week and it’s like Piccadilly bloody Circus.’

Auguste watched her go to the door, but this