Tim and Dee got up early to head to the police station. They had toyed with the idea of calling the police the night before, but Eisenstone’s warnings about trusting no one held them back. They needed to speak with Inspector Kane – no one else would do. Tim put everything on: his red-chequered shirt, hat and rucksack. It had become routine that he’d take the imagination box with him wherever he went – in fact, he felt naked without it. The station wasn’t far from the hotel – Tim, Dee and Phil crossed Glassbridge’s large park, cut a diagonal path up the busy high street and arrived within fifteen minutes.
On their way out Tim had told Elisa that they were going to speak with Inspector Kane about something he had remembered from the night of Eisenstone’s disappearance. It was kind of a lie, but kind of true. (They decided it was too premature to tell her about what they’d discovered. In fact, Tim imagined she’d tell him to ‘stop being silly’ if he started accusing Donald Pinkman of any wrongdoing.)
‘Funnily enough, you just missed the police,’ she had said. ‘Someone broke a window and started a fire in the car park last night, you must have heard a bang?’
‘We were fast asleep,’ Tim said.
‘Like a pair of babies,’ Dee added. ‘Drunk ones.’
This lie was necessary – Tim wouldn’t even know where to start if he was forced to tell the truth. If he had simply said that it was his imagined jetpack that blew up under the car Elisa would have invariably probed him further. That kind of information couldn’t be digested by most people without a lengthy conversation.
The previous night they had managed to slip into the hotel as people rushed out to see what all the noise was. He got upstairs and opened the roof door for Dee without anyone spotting him. They then went straight to bed. Tim had his lies poised, his excuses ready.
Luckily, there was no knock at the door.
The police station’s reception smelled like school: paper, pencils and faintly warm plastic from the computer. The lady at the desk fetched Inspector Kane, who smiled when he spotted them both.
‘Ah, Dee, Tim, come on through,’ the policeman said. Kane waddled as he walked down the long corridor. The floor was shiny and green, like a sports hall, with odd black rubber scuffs. They arrived in Kane’s office, where the inspector checked up and down the corridor before closing the door.
‘Please, sit,’ he said, pointing at a couple of chairs.
Kane moved his body round the desk and sat on his slightly higher swivel chair, directly opposite. ‘So, what can I do for you today?’
‘Well, it’s about Professor Eisenstone. Since he went missing we—’
‘There are inquiries being made – he’s not been declared missing officially, but carry on,’ Kane said. He picked up his mug of coffee and began taking a swig.
‘We think Donald Pinkman might know something about it,’ Tim said.
Inspector Kane stopped, with his cup in his mouth, and took a good couple of seconds before he swallowed his coffee.
‘Right.’ He placed his mug carefully on the coaster. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘He’s working at the Dawn Star Hotel,’ Tim said. ‘As a consultant, as you know. Anyway, he started not long before Eisenstone went …’
‘I see.’ Inspector Kane leant back on his chair and pulled out a notepad from his top drawer.
‘And … Well, we think he might know something about it. I think you should speak to him again.’
Slowly shaking his head, Kane clicked his pen a few times. ‘Hmm. What, exactly, are you basing this on? You can’t just go round making accusations.’
They then explained what they’d discovered – the missing CCTV footage and the fact that Donald had access to the DVDs.
‘I’m afraid this is flimsy evidence, Tim, as interesting as it is,’ Kane answered.
‘We heard him talk about Granddad on the telephone.’ Dee tapped the table with her finger. ‘He mentioned him by name. He said it would be best if the disappearance was kept quiet.’
Inspector Kane sighed. ‘Well, it would look bad for the Dawn Star I suppose. I’ve spoken to Mr Pinkman – he works for a consultancy firm, he was probably checking in with his organisation. Look, people talk about people all the time on the phone. The man is well known, he might be missing, there are thousands of reasons he could be speaking about him. We’re speaking about him now – are any of us guilty?’
‘And he told me … he told me to keep my nose out of other people’s … business …’ Tim deflated – all of a sudden he was full of doubt, wondering whether there could be an innocent explanation for all he’d seen.
‘Listen –,’ Kane placed his pen on his pad – ‘I admire your enthusiasm, but I fear you are maybe letting your imagination run wild.’
Tim couldn’t help but smile. ‘But …’
‘OK,’ Kane said, firmly. ‘It’s our job to find Professor Eisenstone. If there is any wrongdoing, rest assured, we’ll get to the bottom of it.’
‘I … it’s just …’ Tim struggled to find the words. He was annoyed that Inspector Kane wasn’t taking his theory more seriously. Perhaps if he knew the importance of the contraption …
‘His work,’ Dee said, clearly thinking the same thing. ‘It was very …’
‘What do you know about his work?’
Eisenstone’s words echoed in Tim’s mind. He gave Dee the slightest of head shakes.
‘I don’t know anything much really,’ she said. ‘But he told me it is … important.’
Kane’s interest dispersed and his chair creaked as he reclined. ‘I’m sure it was. Now I urge you, as a police officer and as a friend, to stop this. It’s not a good idea to carry on snooping around. There is a process and anything you do could interfere with that.’
Tim nodded, but he wasn’t really listening – his mind was spinning, possible explanations flashing and bouncing around in his head. He needed answers.
*
Initially, the meeting with Inspector Kane took the wind out of their sails. But the moment Tim and Dee got to the hotel, they picked up where they left off – looking for some harder evidence. They knew they needed something concrete to make the policeman take notice.
Much later, sitting at his desk, a little after 3.30 a.m., Tim rubbed his temples in gentle circles. The lamp made an oasis, a warm yellow bubble in the cold of night where he thought of only one thing: Professor Eisenstone.
Dee had convinced her mum to let her stay another night. They both stared down at his sketch pad. The whole case – all his notes, were scribbled messily on the paper, bordered by various sketches, some of random patterns and some of Phil. He had half drawn a picture of his nightmare monster, but had since scribbled it out. It was still at large, still tormenting him from the vents.
They’d talked at great length about where to take their investigation next. Both had agreed, and Tim circled the final bullet point: ‘Eisenstone’s former partner’.
‘Professor Bernard Whitelock,’ Tim said. ‘He worked with Eisenstone but died a couple of months back. He helped design the imagination box. It seems that Professor Eisenstone, Professor Whitelock, me and now you are the only people we can be sure have ever known about it … Who is Professor Whitelock?’
‘I met him once or twice when I was small,’ Dee said. ‘But I know that something happened between them – I think something with their work. Granddad never really spoke about it. Either way, they weren’t close towards the end.’
They spent the next hour searching the name, and every variation, online. They’d done this before, but had only had a cursory glance. Now though, they decided to dedicate some real time to researching Whitelock. They read some of his papers on nanotechnology, most of which were incredibly technical. There were no clues. Tim found an article in some obscure academic journal about Professor Eisenstone and Professor Whitelock. There was a photo of them both, posing in a lab. Eisenstone didn’t look much different, besides having slightly more hair and it being thicker and brown.
The last site they read was an obituary. It was all about Professor Whitelock, his work and his ‘tragic death’. It didn’t mention his troubled final years that Eisenstone spoke of. In fact it just seemed to praise the man as a genius. Tim read the final paragraph, his chin resting on his hand:
‘The untimely death of this great man was a shock to the academic community as much as to friends and family. Professor Bernard Whitelock leaves his wife, whom he married just months prior to his death, former Glassbridge MP, Clarice Crowfield. His contribution to scientific advancement is indisputable; his work has paved the way for—’
Bolt upright now, Tim turned to Dee, who leant closer to his screen. He shook his head and reread the last sentence.
Their attention, in unison, fell on the name Clarice Crowfield.
Professor Whitelock married Clarice Crowfield before he died.
Tim had thought it when he first met the new chef, and he thought it once again: Crowfield was not a common name.