The Case of the Wayward Professor (2 page)

But this was Moorgate, the business district of London, and it was a grey rainy Friday morning. No one stopped, or looked up, or paid the slightest bit of attention to the dragon watching them. They traipsed out of the tube station hurrying to get out of the
drizzle into their warm, dry offices, where they could sit down, make a cup of coffee and while away the day staring at their computer screens, counting the hours until they could go home again.

Dirk Dilly's yellow eyes focused on a man in a grey suit, struggling to open an umbrella without dropping his briefcase. A gust of wind caught the umbrella, blowing it inside out. The man cursed and threw it in a bin. The drizzle became rain and landed on the hairless top of his head, running down to the top of his clumps of grey hair that sprouted around his ears and the top of his neck.

He took a right turn down a narrow lane and Dirk sprang into action, his back reverting to its usual red as he flew, spreading his wings and gliding down to another roof. He had to be careful in this part of the city, where bored workers might easily glance down from their tall office blocks and see him.

The consequences of being seen were unthinkable, which was why most dragons avoided cities, preferring to hide in more remote corners of the globe – the bottom of the deepest oceans, the top of the highest mountains, or far down in the belly of the earth itself.

Many years ago, the Dragon Council realised that it would be impossible to share the world with the race
of strange bipedal mammals that called itself mankind. A conference was called high in the Himalayas. All of dragonkind voted on whether to annihilate humans before they created weapons so powerful as to make them impossible to destroy, or whether to go into hiding until mankind went the way of the dinosaurs. The dragons in favour of fighting rose into the air, while those who wanted to hide stayed on the ground, and it was decided by majority vote that mankind would be allowed to run its course. Attacking humans, being seen by a human, or allowing a human to find any evidence of dragon existence were all made punishable by banishment to the earth's Inner Core.

But Dirk was quick and experienced and, like all Mountain Dragons, whenever he was at rest he could blend his skin to match the surface beneath. It was a useful skill in this busy part of the city. Dirk's work had brought him here many times before, following cheating husbands who told their wives they were working late, or taking pictures of disgruntled employees conducting secret meetings with rival companies. London was full of corruption and deception and Dirk had seen it all.

The man turned down an alleyway. Dirk jumped again, grabbed on to a flagpole that stuck out of the
side of a building, swung round twice, catapulting himself into the air and down on to the next building, where he stopped dead. The alleyway led on to another road, where the man entered a large glass-fronted building. He greeted the security guard and took the lift to the sixth floor, where he hung up his coat and settled down at his desk.

Dirk settled too, blending with the office roof, and preparing for another dull day's detective work. This wasn't the most exciting case in the world, but business had been quiet since his last big job, when he had been hired to find a missing cat in South London and ended up foiling the plans of a band of rebel dragons, known as the Kinghorns, intent on destroying mankind. He had also found the cat.

Since then, he had looked out for any dragons in the human world or any signs of what their mysterious leader, Vainclaw Grandin, might be planning next, but hunting Kinghorns wasn't going to pay the rent and he was getting tired of hiding from Mrs Klingerflim, his landlady.

He had received the call five days ago. Dirk conducted all his business over the phone.

‘The Dragon Detective Agency,' he said, ‘Dirk Dilly speaking.'

‘Oh, hello, yes, I need your help,' a female voice replied nervously.

‘What can I do for you, madam?' he asked, his feet on the desk, watching Willow jumping up, trying to catch the smoke mice he had been blowing, looking perplexed each time one vanished beneath her paw. Never learning.
Stupid animal
, thought Dirk, stroking her with his tail and wondering why Holly still hadn't been in contact. Maybe she was enjoying her new school and making some human friends for a change.

‘My husband has been acting suspiciously,' said the woman. ‘I know his work is important to him but he's become increasingly secretive, he gets strange phone calls and comes home and locks himself in his study every night.' She sounded tearful. ‘I feel like I'm losing him.'

‘OK,' said Dirk. ‘I'll find out what he's up to, but are you sure you want to know? In my experience secretive husbands are very rarely organising surprise parties for their wives.'

‘I need to know,' she said, ‘before it's too late.'

Dirk took down the details.

Professor Karl Rosenfield

Scientist for a company called NAPOW

Wife, Carolyn Rosenfield

Married 23 years

Fast forward four days and Dirk had never followed anyone less suspicious. Every day was the same. He kissed his wife goodbye and walked to the station. He always bought a copy of the
Telegraph
from the newsagent in the station, picking up the newspaper in his right hand and handing over the correct change with his left. He caught the 8:11 train to Liverpool Street, travelled one tube stop to Moorgate, where he exited and walked to work. He took the same route every day, spoke to the same security guard for the same amount of time, took the same lift to the same floor, hung his same coat in the same place and sat at the same desk until lunchtime, when he bought the same sandwich (ham and pickle on brown) from the same sandwich shop.

At half past five every day he did the whole journey in reverse, reaching home at between 18:24 on a good day and 18:38 on a bad one. After dinner, he went upstairs to his study while his wife watched soaps on her own in the living room. He kept a blue roller blind pulled down in the study window, so Dirk couldn't see inside.

Today was Friday and Dirk was expecting the same, so it came as a surprise when at half past five instead of grabbing his coat, the professor remained at his desk, staying there another hour until everyone had left the building and the sun had gone down, then slipping out of a side door. Instead of his usual briefcase, he carried a large silver case, and rather than walking to the station he hailed a black cab.

The sky was dark, the air, cold and moist. Dirk moved to the edge of the building, spread his wings and glided to the next rooftop, landing into a forward roll then springing up again. He followed the taxi to the outskirts of the financial district, where the buildings looked older and grubbier. It stopped by a disused redbrick hospital, which had worn brickwork and smashed and boarded-up windows. Dirk landed on the roof and peered over the edge.

Professor Rosenfield paid the taxi driver and watched him drive away. A man at the other end of the road was selling watermelons outside a nearby mosque. Rosenfield glanced round then slipped inside the old hospital.

Dirk found a door on the roof, shouldered it open and entered, pulling it shut with his tail and following a flight of stairs down.

He moved quickly and silently through the gloomy building, stealthily slipping down the corridors, listening for footsteps. Dirk wasn't easily scared but there was something spooky about the old, dark and deserted hospital corridors.

He heard the professor's voice coming from the floor below.

‘Hello?' he said. ‘Is there anyone here?'

Dirk noticed a light coming from a hole in the floor. He crouched down and put his eye to it. He could see Professor Rosenfield enter what looked like an old operating theatre, carrying a torch. He looked nervous.

‘Hello?' said Rosenfield again. ‘Are you … Are you there?'

‘Do not come any further,' said a deep baritone voice. Dirk couldn't see who it belonged to.

‘I can't see you,' said the professor.

‘That's the idea,' replied the voice. ‘Is that it?'

‘Oh yes, yes. This is it.' He held up the silver case.

‘And you are sure no one suspects anything?'

‘Positive. The AOG project is top secret, but I can't see what use it is to you. I told you, I can enter coordinates, but you can't operate it without …'

The deep voice interrupted him. ‘This is not your concern, professor.'

‘What about your side of the bargain?' asked the professor.

‘It's in the parcel,' said the gravelly voice.

The professor walked to the middle of the room, where he picked up a brown parcel.

‘Open it,' said the voice.

The professor did so excitedly like a child opening a Christmas present. Dirk couldn't see what was inside, but he saw the professor's face light up and a tear form in the corner of his eye. ‘My goodness,' he gasped. ‘Is it real?'

‘Yes, and there'll be more once you have reprogrammed the machine. The coordinates are also in there.'

The professor looked up vacantly then blinked and said, ‘This is very marvellous.'

‘Thank you, Professor Rosenfield. Now go home and I will contact you shortly with details of where you should go next,' said the voice. ‘Please make sure that no one knows of this.'

‘Gosh, no.'

Rosenfield tucked the parcel under his arm, picked up the silver case and left the room.

Dirk kept his eye on the room below, wanting to catch a glimpse of the owner of the deep voice. He
shifted slightly to get a better view, waiting for him to step into sight, but no one appeared. He heard a noise and raised his head, but not quickly enough. A sharp pain shot through his skull and he slumped on the ground, knocked unconscious.

Holly could hear Petal's voice from the other end of the girls' dormitory corridor.

‘I don't give two hoots how much they love the book. It isn't enough money and no one else can play me. I don't care how many Oscars she's got. I'll play myself.'

Holly entered the room. Petal, her thin blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, wearing a T-shirt with the cover of her mum's latest album on the front, was pacing with her mobile phone held to her ear.

‘Just tell them or I'll go with the Disney offer and please stop back-chatting me.' She switched off the phone, exclaimed, ‘Agents!' and threw herself on to her bed.

She looked up at Holly. ‘Oh, hi there,' she said frostily.

‘Hello, Petal,' replied Holly.

‘Look, I don't want there to be any bad feelings between us. I understand why you said what you did in class and I forgive you. I know you're jealous of me.'

‘I'm not jealous of you,' replied Holly.

‘It's totally understandable. I'd be jealous of me if I wasn't me. I called Hermann. He's my therapist and he explained the whole thing. I actually feel sorry for you now,' said Petal, forcing her face into an unnatural-looking smile.

A few days ago a comment like that would have caused Holly to blow up into a raging ball of indignation, but today she bit her lip. Today she could rise above anything Petal threw at her. Today she was getting out.

‘Sure,' she said calmly. ‘Thanks.'

‘And I've looked into it. Bob says the title isn't supposed to be taken literally. It's figurative.'

Bob was the man Petal had employed to write the book for her.

‘And you can thank me,' Petal continued, ‘I've sorted out the pest problem.'

Holly felt the colour drain from her face. ‘What?' she said.

Petal lifted up the duvet to reveal, under the bed, a mousetrap with a dead mouse caught in it, its neck broken in two. ‘I've asked the caretaker to come and remove it,' she said, looking pleased with herself.

Holly clapped her hand to her mouth to stop herself screaming.

It was Little Willow.

Murdered.

Late that night Holly lay in bed, fully clothed beneath the sheets; her trainers, coat and bag by the door.

She didn't want Petal to know how much Little Willow had meant to her, so had said nothing and waited until she left the room before taking out the dead mouse and burying her in the school grounds, with a solemn vow to avenge her death.

‘No, Mummy,' muttered Petal in her sleep. ‘It has to be real fur.'

Holly listened as footsteps passed outside the door. The overnight teacher patrolled every hour. Once they had gone, she checked her watch. It had just gone midnight. Time to go. She pulled back the covers, slipped out of bed, crept across the room and picked up her things. She pulled open the door and stepped out.

Still in her socks, she darted across to a cupboard and climbed in. This was a blind spot. No cameras. She put on her trainers, her black coat over her black jumper and the black balaclava she had fashioned from a bobble hat by cutting out eye holes and pulling it over her face. She slipped her bag over her shoulder and emerged.