The Department of the Unexplained
Darkus watched London grind to life as his dad navigated the city, blending seamlessly with the other black cabs carrying suits to work. Darkus sat back and took a moment to absorb recent events. He watched the fare increase on the meter over the dashboard and couldn’t help thinking that every increment was taking him farther away from the new world he’d discovered and closer back to the old world of Clive and his mom. It was a sinking feeling that he couldn’t reason with.
He was roused from his meditation by the blare of a car horn behind them. They were at a set of traffic lights, but although the light was green, the cab hadn’t moved.
“Dad, it’s green,” said Darkus through the glass divider.
His father didn’t answer.
“Dad . . . ?”
Knightley’s voice crackled through the cabin’s intercom speaker: “Not now, Darkus. I’m thinking.” His ears seemed to lift, and his eyes gazed off into the middle distance.
The driver behind them leaned on the horn again, holding it down until the pitch wavered and complained. Darkus sank deeper into his seat with embarrassment.
Then he realized what his father was looking at. A line of red London buses extended ahead of them, each displaying its route number on the back in large digits: 14, 49, 70, 74.
Knightley appeared to be mouthing the numbers to himself, oblivious to the cacophony of horns that was reaching a crescendo behind him. It was as if the numbers meant something, but Knightley couldn’t decipher what.
“Er, Dad? Maybe we should pull over?”
The traffic light changed back to red, and there was a temporary lull in the horns. Knightley kept looking dead ahead.
“The Combination, Doc . . . ,” Knightley said through the intercom. “We’re getting closer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know . . . ,” Knightley replied honestly, his eyes glazed over with moisture, as if the stress was too much for him.
Darkus examined his father’s haunted face in the rearview mirror. “Talk to me. What are you seeing, Dad?”
“Numbers,” said Knightley.
“What do they mean?” urged Darkus.
“I have no idea!” he shouted impatiently.
Suddenly the light turned green, and before the cars could sound their horns, Knightley threw the cab into gear and lurched away.
Darkus was thrown back in his seat, watching his father anxiously.
“Don’t worry, Doc. I’m okay.”
“Has this got something to do with your . . . episode?”
“Are you trying to say I’m crazy?”
“No, I’m trying to understand,” said Darkus. “What’s the last thing you remember before you lost consciousness?”
“Numbers, Doc. A set of numbers.”
“What kind of numbers?”
“I wish I knew,” admitted Knightley. “Maybe it’s not meant to add up. Maybe it’s something I’m not meant to remember . . . ,” he said, spooked.
“We’ll work it out, Dad,” Darkus assured him. “Together.”
“Whatever happens, don’t let them take me back to Shrubwoods. Understand? It’s not safe there anymore.”
“I promise.”
“And not a word to your mother, all right?”
“Okay, Dad.”
The city was soon replaced by the suburbs, which were in turn replaced by the stretch of highway and the inevitable exit ramp. By the time the meter read £200.20, Knightley was turning onto Wolseley Close. They parked at the corner several houses away and sat with the engine idling. A ray of sunshine lit up the symmetrical lawns and tidy flower beds. Knightley admired the view longingly for a moment, then turned around and slid open the glass divider.
“This is your stop, Doc.”
“Do I have to, Dad?”
“Yes, I’m afraid you do,” he replied. “I suggest you enter through the back garden unseen. Retrieve the Knowledge and pass it to me over the side wall.”
“Aren’t you going to at least say hello to Mom?”
“Not this time,” he answered. “I’ve got work to do.”
On hearing those words, Darkus understood there was no point arguing any further. Knightley pressed a button, and the doors unlocked with a heavy click.
Darkus stepped onto the street and hesitated, seeing everything with fresh eyes: Wolseley Close was both happy and sad, like a treasured piece of clothing he’d suddenly grown out of. He lowered his head and walked away from the cab, until he noticed something odd: a small black cone with a silver shield on it appeared to be hovering behind a nearby hedge. Darkus’s catastrophizer went into overdrive as he detected several more cones hidden in the undergrowth at vantage points along the street.
“Dad!” he shouted.
Knightley stamped on the accelerator and roared into the kind of tight U-turn only a London cab could perform, but his path was instantly blocked by an arriving police car. Officers leaped out of every available car door, more of them emerging from the undergrowth. Knightley threw the cab into reverse, only to find another police car behind him, cutting him off. Knightley rested his hands on the steering wheel in defeat.
A policeman grabbed Darkus and hoisted him onto the sidewalk as half a dozen officers pulled the cab door open and dragged Knightley out, pinning him to the ground.
“Dad!!!” Darkus yelled.
“It’s okay, Doc,” Knightley replied from underneath the writhing mass of uniforms.
Darkus struggled as he was escorted to the house. A burly shape stepped out of a police sedan and approached the throng.
“Hello, Alan,” said Draycott, trying to conceal the smile under his mustache.
“Inspector Draycott,” replied Knightley, glancing up.
“Chief Inspector,” he corrected him. “I thought you were having yourself a well-earned rest?”
“Well, I woke up with this irrepressible urge to get back to work.”
“Not if I’ve got anything to do with it.” Draycott nodded to his officers, who promptly handcuffed Knightley and hauled him to his feet. “This is a nice, quiet community of decent, law-abiding people. It’s been a haven of peace and tranquillity since you’ve been away. We don’t need you coming around scaring everyone with your . . . ideas.”
“Chief Inspector Draycott,” Knightley began, “you’ve never been the brightest spark in the police force, but I believe you’ve always been a loyal servant of the law. So I’ll ask you to let me go and allow me to do my job unmolested.”
“I don’t approve of your methods, Knightley, and I don’t approve of you. You’ve already left a trail of terrified seniors at Shrubwoods Hospice. Not to mention Clive and Jackie here. In light of the evidence, I’m going to recommend the doctors put you under observation for a few weeks, maybe a month. Make sure you’re not getting up to anything . . . dodgy,” said Draycott with relish.
“That would be detrimental to the forces of law and order, an insult to your already limited intelligence, and a serious risk to the fate of the case I’m currently working on.”
“And that is . . . ?” Draycott inquired.
Knightley paused, then lowered his voice. “An organization I believe to be responsible for almost every unexplained crime, both great and small, in towns and cities across the country, maybe across Europe, and possibly even the world.”
“Oh, is that all?” quipped Draycott.
“I didn’t expect for one second you’d believe me, but if you’ll allow me access to my former home, I’ll be glad to show you the evidence.”
Draycott stifled a laugh. “I think I’d like to see this evidence,” he said skeptically, then turned to his uniformed colleagues. “Chaps, indulge me.”
The officers fell into line behind him—all except for a taller one and a stockier one, who exchanged a knowing glance and returned to their police car.
Darkus was already waiting on the driveway, instructing a weary officer, “I wasn’t kidnapped. I volunteered to go. To help.”
“Of course you did.”
“Sweetie!” Jackie cried out, running from the front door and grabbing Darkus in an embrace. “Don’t ever do that again . . . Ever.” She held him tight.
Draycott marched Knightley up the driveway. Darkus disengaged himself and turned to face his father’s captor. “If you use excessive force on this vulnerable man, recently recovered from a serious medical condition, I won’t hesitate to make sure you’re disciplined to the full extent of the law,” he advised him.
Draycott straightened up in surprise. “Duly noted.”
Knightley looked up, seeing his former wife, and smiled. “Hello, Jackie.”
Jackie seemed unsure how to react. “Hello, Alan.” She smoothed an errant hair behind her ear.
“Hello, Alan,” echoed Clive, appearing behind her on the lawn. “Where’s my car, Alan?” he demanded.
“Ah . . . yes,” Knightley muttered under his breath.
“Is it okay?”
“It corners impeccably, Clive.”
“Is it okay, Alan?” Clive half shouted.
“You’ll find it in the capable hands of Transport for London.” Knightley turned to Draycott. “Shall we proceed?”
Draycott reluctantly waved him on, but Clive blocked the doorway in protest.
“Mr. Knightley just wants to show us something before we take him away,” the inspector explained.
“Jackie . . . ?” Clive urged, shaking his head fervently.
“Go ahead, Alan,” she answered.
“Show them the Knowledge, Doc.”
“Okay, gentlemen. Follow me . . .”
Darkus led the entire procession through the house, upstairs, and across the landing to his bedroom. Knightley followed obediently behind Draycott and his officers.
Darkus paused at his bedroom door and turned to address them all. “You’ll have to excuse the state of my room. I left in something of a hurry.”
“He’s a very neat boy,” explained Jackie.
Clive harrumphed in agreement.
Draycott and his officers watched impatiently as Darkus opened the door to his room, then stopped dead, instantly detecting something wrong. He turned to his father, confused. “Someone’s been here.”
“What do you mean, Doc?”
Darkus walked briskly into the room, mentally recording every object that was out of place. He saw his laptop on the desk with the cable still attached, but lying limp, leading nowhere. The hard drive was gone.
“I must’ve forgotten to lock it away,” said Darkus, looking up at his father apologetically. “I always lock it away,” he added, hardly believing his error.
Knightley took a moment to process this, then nodded soberly. “It’s okay, Doc. There are forces at work that are obviously closer at my heels than I thought.”
“How very convenient,” said Draycott. “The one piece of evidence that might substantiate your story has mysteriously gone missing.”
“There’s nothing mysterious about it,” said Knightley plainly. “It’s the work of the Combination; you can be sure of that.”
“The what?” Draycott asked, stroking his mustache, curious.
“The organization I was telling you about. They know I’ve woken up, and they’ve traced me here. And by their good fortune they’ve managed to stumble onto the single most important piece of evidence I have against them. Clearly they gained access to my son’s room in the past twelve hours, probably with the collusion of your own officers.”
“You’re accusing my men of being involved?” Draycott bristled.
“Unfortunately, the heinous fraternity I refer to draws its members from both crime and law enforcement. And that hard drive was our best chance of finding them.”
“And what exactly was on it?” asked Draycott.
“Only a detailed record of every case in my illustrious career, every crime scene, every clue, every lead to the location and membership of the Combination.” Knightley sighed heavily. “I must conclude that the Knowledge has already been passed up the ladder, or destroyed, and I’m left with nothing but . . .” He trailed off, looking at Darkus with a newfound intensity.
“Nothing but me,” said Darkus, finishing his sentence. He quickly followed his father’s logic without Knightley having to say a word. “I’ve got the Knowledge . . . up here.” Darkus pointed to his own head.
“It’s impossible, Doc,” Knightley barked, not wishing to accept the truth.
“I’m telling you, it’s all here,” Darkus repeated with complete conviction.
“If you think I’d utilize my own son—”
“If everything you’ve said is true,” said Darkus, “that’s exactly what you should do.”
“Damn it, Doc . . .” Knightley rubbed his head, racked with anxiety.
“Okay, show’s over, Alan,” Draycott announced. “You’re coming with me.”
Darkus grabbed his father’s arm. “If you don’t take me with you, I’ll be in more danger here. I’m a sitting duck,” he said gravely.
“This is insanity,” murmured Knightley.
“I couldn’t have chosen a better word myself,” said Draycott. “Now come along. You’re under arrest.”
“Wait a second,” Knightley said, examining Darkus closely. “If you’re so sure of yourself . . .” He paused, then launched into a carefully chosen line of questioning: “What was the prima facie evidence in the investigation of the Man with the Harelip?”
The entire group looked from Knightley to Darkus.
“The bloody paw print,” answered Darkus.
Everyone turned back to Knightley, whose eyes lit up wildly. “Where and when did I first encounter the Jade Dagger?”
Darkus wasn’t even aware he’d become the center of attention—his brain was too busy producing the answer with the speed of a well-oiled machine.
“December 2001,” he said without hesitation. “On a train bound for Didcot Parkway. The three forty.”
“Excellent. Excellent!” Knightley exclaimed, thrilled.
Draycott turned to Jackie, stroking his mustache. “This sort of rapport is common in kidnap cases. I believe we’re witnessing what’s known as—”
“Stockholm syndrome,” said Jackie warily.
“Yes, exactly,” Draycott said, clearing his throat.
“Or maybe it’s just father-son syndrome,” she said drily.
Fearing he might have been intellectually outmaneuvered, Draycott got back to what he knew best. “All right, Alan, come quietly.”
The officers manhandled Knightley back across the landing as he struggled to slow them down, turning to face Jackie. “Doc’s right. He’s not safe here,” he said flatly.
Jackie shrugged, helpless. “What do you want me to do?”
Inexplicably, Knightley stopped resisting for a moment and sniffed the air, then answered, “Nothing. He’ll be protected. It’s okay.” He relaxed and let the officers guide him as Jackie watched, mystified.
“What do you mean, it’s okay?!” she demanded.
Draycott escorted Knightley down the staircase. “I hereby arrest you on suspicion of theft of a motor vehicle, child abduction, and public disorder—”
“That will not be necessary, Inspector,” a voice interrupted him.
Darkus immediately recognized the voice and matched it with the aroma he’d detected moments after his father did. “Uncle Bill . . . ,” he muttered under his breath.
“It’s Chief Inspector!” Draycott called out, unable to see whom he was addressing.
By this time, the wisps of cigar smoke were visibly climbing the stairs, although Bill himself was planted firmly in the entrance hall, his girth apparently too abundant for the crowded staircase.
“And you are . . . ?” said Draycott.
“A friend,” Bill replied, then lowered his smoldering stogie and held up a leather ID wallet.
“And not a moment too soon,” said Knightley, offering his cuffed hands to Draycott.
Draycott parted his way through the smoke and examined Bill’s ID. “SO 42 . . . ?” he scoffed. “Never heard of it.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. Yer’ll find a phone number there . . .” Bill held it up to Draycott’s face. “I suggest ye call it.”
Draycott snatched the ID wallet out of his hand and drew a cell phone from his utility belt. He marched into the living room, punching the number into the keypad, then stopped, surprised to receive an immediate answer on the other end.
“Hello? Yes, this is Chief Inspector Draycott. Who is this?”
There was a long pause as the voice on the other end delivered a long and thorough explanation.
“But—” Draycott tried to interject, but the voice continued for another ten seconds.
The rest of the police officers listened in silence. Knightley took the opportunity to exchange pleasantries with his old friend.
“You’ve lost some weight, Bill. Approximately three pounds, I’d say.”
“Aye, thank ye for noticing, Alan.”
Meanwhile, Draycott slowly turned a shade paler and lowered the phone, unconsciously clipping it to his belt.Then he went completely quiet for a moment.
“Sir?” a policeman asked, concerned.
“Yes . . . ?” Draycott replied, dazed. “Yes,” he repeated, regaining command of himself. “Move out, men. We have a . . .” He searched for the right word. “A jurisdictional issue.”
The assembled officers looked at each other.
“You heard me,” he said, pointing to the door. “Chop-chop.” Draycott thrust the ID wallet back at Bill and turned to Knightley. “Until next time, Alan,” he said, unlocking the handcuffs and reattaching them to his belt. “And there will certainly be a next time,” he warned, then followed his officers out.
Clive and Jackie descended the stairs, unsure of what had just happened.
“Clive, Jackie, would ye give me a moment alone with Alan and young Darkus?” Bill requested.
“Doc, is that okay with you?” Jackie asked.
“Absolutely, yes-yes,” Darkus replied, unable to hide his enthusiasm.
Then a new voice interjected. “If you’re missing something, you might want to talk to me too,” said Tilly, standing above them on the stairs. “I saw a couple of cops snooping around Darkus’s bedroom—only I don’t think they were real cops.” She had their attention now. “They left five minutes ago.”
Darkus listened carefully as Tilly relayed her story to Knightley and Uncle Bill, giving a full description of the two suspects, along with cell-phone video footage of them leaving the scene in their police car. Bill instantly relayed the details to the local constabulary, who confirmed that the two officers in question never reported back to the station.
First they’d stolen Knightley’s case files, then they’d made sure his progress was obstructed by Draycott. Now the Knowledge, and its thieves, were long gone.
Struggling to keep pace with events, strangely, Darkus found himself wondering about Tilly’s hair and the fact that it had changed color again since the previous day. He marveled at how she found time for anything else, let alone to observe the suspicious behavior of two so-called police officers. He had to admit he was impressed. After Tilly finished her account, Uncle Bill thanked her and asked her to wait next door until he had interviewed Darkus.
“I’m not finished yet,” she protested. “I’ve got a few questions of my own.” She turned her attention to Knightley.
“All in good time,” he answered vaguely.
Tilly narrowed her eyes, assessing the situation before letting Uncle Bill usher her out of the living room and close the door behind her.
Bill sat opposite the Knightleys, his homburg hat resting on his generous midsection. “Now, Darkus,” he began.
“Call me Doc.”
“Doc. Yer father and myself worked together on many of the cases ye apparently know so well.”
“I never saw your name mentioned,” said Darkus.
“That’s because ma name is not technically ‘Uncle Bill.’ It’s Montague Billoch.”
“You work for Scotland Yard,” said Darkus, remembering the name from the Knowledge.
“Indeed.”
Knightley added, “That’s where he got his nickname. Uncle Bill—Old Bill. The Bill—it’s slang for the police.”
“Logical,” said Darkus with a nod.
“Aye. Only I don’t work for any department ye or many other people will have heard of,” Bill went on.
“SO 42,” said Darkus.
“Aye,” said Bill. “Specialist Operations branch forty-two. Only among the likes of yer father and myself, it’s known as the Department of the Unexplained. It does not operate in the world of Draycott or the regular police force. It’s too secretive for that. It exists outside the regular world, just like the crimes it investigates.”
“And what crimes are those?” asked Darkus.
“Highly organized crime, parapsychology, the occult, the dark arts, and well nigh everything in between.”
“In other words . . . the Combination,” said Knightley.
“We’ll see about that, Alan,” said Bill, then turned back to Darkus. “Yer father and me don’t always see eye to eye. Alan believes there is one organization that is responsible for all these unexplained events. The Combination, he claims. I, however, find it hard to believe such a web is possible, and have yet to see the evidence.”
“That’s why I assembled all my cases into one file: the Knowledge,” added Knightley. “For reasons of security, I never referred to our enemy by name.”
“Indeed.” Bill explained to Darkus: “Yer father was preparing to hand over the sum total of all his investigations to prove or disprove his theory once and for all. But before he could do that, he had his wee . . . episode.”
Knightley nodded gravely. “Now the Knowledge is gone, and we’re back to square one. And my brain is nothing but a dull blade.”
Uncle Bill shifted uncomfortably in his seat, the chair creaking under his weight.
“Now, Doc . . . how do ye feel about everything we’ve told ye?” he inquired gently.
Knightley waited with bated breath for his son’s response.
“I don’t have the empirical data to determine whether one organization is responsible for all my father’s cases,” said Darkus. “However, having had the chance to digest the Knowledge, I would agree with him that there are certainly connections: all those clues going missing, forensic evidence being mishandled or ruled inadmissible in court, witnesses changing their stories.”
Knightley cleared his throat and took over. “My memory’s not what it used to be, but Darkus knows the history. Throughout my career, there were clues, traces, that formed a common thread running through every case. Follow the thread and you locate the Combination.”
Darkus watched his father, concerned. It was clear that whether the Combination existed or not, his father wasn’t about to let it go. Uncle Bill shrugged, unconvinced, his chair creaking in complaint.
Knightley continued undaunted: “Clive’s daughter observes two police officers absconding with the Knowl-edge. You think that’s coincidence?”
Bill shifted in his seat again, apparently too exhausted to weigh the theories anymore. “I have bigger fish to fry, Alan,” he wheezed.
“And what, pray tell, are they?” said Knightley.
Bill sighed, uncertain whether involving Knightley would be beneficial or not. He produced a fresh cigar, struck a match to it, and resumed puffing smoke. “I have six unexplained bank robberies across six different counties, committed by six individuals with no criminal backgrounds,” he complained.
“It was on the news last night,” added Darkus.
“Piquant,” said Knightley. “Are there any patterns relating to age, gender, or ethnicity?”
“None whatsayever.” Bill blew a smoke ring.
“Any casualties as a result of the robberies?” continued Knightley.
“No.”
“Any suspects in custody?”
“Just one. And I’m off to see him shortly.”
“What about tools or weapons of choice?” Darkus ventured.
“Aye. One clue was discovered at the scene of every crime. Only it’s not a weapon, exactly,” said Bill, looking perplexed. “It’s a boook.”