Chapter Seven

After the pleasant talk yesterday with Andy Fortham in the precinct’s cafeteria, Dave now had in his inbox the statements of all three victims of the ‘toy-basher’, as he had named the unknown perpetrator for his own convenience.

Surprisingly, only one of the toy owners was a bachelor, the other two were married men and had apparently been keeping their toys secret from their spouses.

Until the toy-basher had struck, that is.

Dave closed his eyes and rubbed his face. Then his left hand went back on the desk, while his right one remained in the vicinity of his head, hanging from his lower lip. He pulled at his lip some more, scratched his nose, and made a funny noise by sucking air through his lower teeth.

What were the first things to check in such a case?

Three areas of inquiry fermented slowly in his mind for some time now: did the owners of the destroyed cyber dolls know each other; what specific type were the dolls themselves; had the owners purchased them in a shop, or ordered them online.

Naturally, the police had neither included the exact types of the dolls in their report, nor had they asked how they were purchased. Then again, what can one expect from badly paid amateurs like them? Evidently, it was up to him to hunt down the details of the case.

He was now in possession of the coordinates of all three victims and so he picked up his phone and dialed the first number. The phone on the other end of the line rang for about ten seconds before someone picked up.

“Hello, who is this?”

“Hi,” Dave said with his deep official voice, “I’m looking for Mister Phalak Chipayda?”

“Chippada. On the telephone, who am I speaking to?”

Mister Chippada spoke quickly, almost merging the words.

Dave tried to lead the pace to more measured modes, “Hi, this is David Cohran, a detective working with the city police. I’m working on the case of the break-in into your house.”

“Ah, good to know but I am busy right now…”

“Certainly, Mister er...Chippada.” Dave made a measured pause, “perhaps you can tell me when it would be convenient to meet so that I can ask you a few quick questions?”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. Then the fast-paced speech resumed, “Well, let’s say in two, no, two and a half hours in the...do you know that place, near the… no, wait. Do you know that new shopping mall near the old railway station?”

“Er, yes I do know that mall. I haven’t been there yet.”

“Splendid, they have a nice cafe on the first floor. Okay to be there in two, no, two and a half hours?”

“All right, Mister Chippada, see you then.”

“Quite, good bye.”

Dave wrote down the appointment and called the second number. It rang for almost half a minute before the voicemail switched on.

“Er, hi, this is Dave Cohran, detective for the city police. I’m looking for Mister Muis Munyos Bardales. Please call this number.”

After leaving this message, Dave scribbled a question mark beside ‘Bardales’, and dialed the third number.

The phone was snatched up almost immediately, and a hoarse voice snapped, “Yes, who is this?”

“Mister Boyle? Desmond Boyle?”

“He speaking, who you be?”

Dave rolled his eyes and introduced him for the third time, “Hi, this is detective David Cohran, concerning that break-in into your house.”

“Ah yeah, you’ve pinked who make the fafa?”

“Not yet, Mister Boyle. I’m calling to ask you to meet me, so that I can write down some details, which my colleagues in the police may have overlooked.”

“Well, I be out of town at the moment and be back in a week. Can’t we deal liner?”

“Certainly, if you don’t mind.”

“No I don’t. Go snap me in.”

“Right, how did you purchase your sex doll—online, or in an old shop?”

“Hrmph, an old shop.”

“What was its name and address?”

“Erm...just a sec.”

Dave was aware of the background voices that had audible up to now through the phone receding into the distance. Mister Boyle had walked off to a more private place.

“Listen, you be right, Mister...Calahan”

“Cohran.”

“Pardon, Cohran. That’s an infa I be only giving to a dook I be sure is a sniffer, and here-now, as I cannot see your...credentials...”

“All right, I understand, Mister Boyle. When did you say are coming back into town?”

“In a week. Next Friday.”

“In that case then, I will give you a call on Friday.”

“Yes, do that, best mest and goodbye...”

“Bye,” snapped Dave and switched on to the other line. Someone was calling him. “Yes, Detective Cohran on the phone.”

“Hello, Munyo Bardales, you called just now but I couldn’t talk then.”

“Ah yes, Mister Bardales. I would like to take some more details concerning the break-in into your home, when would it be convenient to meet?”

“Where are you now, detective?”

“Er, you want to come over to me?”

“Sure thing, I’m a cabby, just say where you are.”

Dave said his address. The cabby repeated it. “Okay, I can be over in forty minutes. Is that good?”

“That’s good, Mister Bardales. I’ll be waiting.”

Dave put down the phone and crossed out the question mark near Bardales’ name. He added ‘next week Friday’ next to Boyle’s name and looked at the time. It was 16.04.

Presumably, Bardales would arrive a little before 17.00. At around 18.20, he would meet Phalak in the new mall. It would take him about a half an hour to get there in the early evening traffic, so he could give Bardales forty minutes of his time at the most. That should be more than enough.

He heard the sound of dance music in the other room, and deciding to combine idle curiosity with lukewarm coffee, he took his private mug and exited his private office.

Maldiva was sitting at her desk, with a sparkling crimson lipstick today, and the old TV near the visitor’s sofa was on.

A girl of about eight was sitting on the sofa, one leg folded beneath her, the other dangling over the edge. She was watching intently a music clip and was trying to imitate with her arms and shoulders the movements of the people dancing on the screen.

“Mister Cohran, this is Lucy,” Maldiva said quickly. “Lucy, say ‘hi’ to Mister Cohran.”

Lucy unglued her gaze from the screen long enough to wave a hand at Dave, and sank back into the glamorous world of close-ups of high heels and tilted frames of moving bodies.

“You remember I said last week that Lucy would be with me today, Mister Cohran?” asked Maldiva.

Dave had completely forgotten, but now an echo of a memory resurfaced, that he had indeed heard something like that, and had probably nodded in a noncommittal way, which Maldiva had expertly interpreted as enthusiastic agreement.

“Yeah, I remember,” Dave said. “Lucy,” he added as proof that he remembered, and started pouring the coffee into his mug.

“Slap. Slappy slappy slappy yeah.

Slappy, slappy, slappy hoe,

Nevah nevah let me go,

Nevah evah slappy hoe.”

Dave finished refilling his mug and glanced at the TV screen. Lucy’s torso was modestly gyrating in attempted sync with a female performer surrounded by six young males in g-strings, red masks with zipped mouth holes clinging to their faces.

The singer was dressed in a tight orange latex suit, with sparkling glass gems, at least Dave hoped they were glass gems, on her green boots and gloves. She had a tilted fedora on her head, and a close-up of her own brown mask revealed that not only was her mouth hole with an unzipped zipper, but that also the eye slits had tiny zips, which were also unzipped.

The camera twirled a few times around the performer and then suddenly receded, showing the whole dancing crew.

“And when I come to your door,

Don’t you evah let me go,

Take me quick-ah, take me quick-ah

Nevah evah slappy hoe.”

Dave glanced at Lucy, then at Maldiva. Maldiva was quietly typing something on her PC, her blue nails flashing with each clickity-clack. To Lucy, apparently the clip was showing a fantastic way to dance, and dress, unfortunately.

He shrugged his shoulders and retreated to his room.

There was no point in thinking further about the toy-basher case, until he had met with at least the two victims that were in town, so he decided to be a responsible citizen and see what the news sites had to offer concerning the upcoming elections.

As usual, it was easier said than done, because of the battle of his conscious will against his deep-seated aversion to politics, and thus numerous other news distracted him quite successfully.

The South Carolina governor had finally come out and made a public statement concerning his use of a cybernetic little boy sex toy.

Naturally, as a Christian and a long standing defender of family values, he hoped for the forgiveness and understanding of his family and supporters. This was a difficult time for everyone and only by working together would they get beyond this shameful episode.

Dave pressed the see whole statement link.

Blah, blah, family and supporters, aha, here was the continuation of the humbled senator’s speech.

“I hope everyone, including the media, will understand the need for some simple human privacy, which I and my wonderful family need, in order to sort things out.

I regret with all my heart, that I have let my family down, and also that I have let down my supporters.

I have not been true to my values and my behavior is not what my family deserves. It is not what you all deserve.

I am not without faults, as I am only human, therefore imperfect.

This was a disgusting lapse of morals on my behalf, but as we all know, sin is strong, but with the help of the Lord, we can be stronger.”

Dave glanced at the comments below the article, which were not very informative, since they had almost nothing to do with the story. Rather, the commentators were pursuing personal vendettas against each other.

An analysis of the current phase of the Indo-China cold war caught his attention. Its outlines now lurked behind the tension between Sudan and Kenya, where already a number of armed skirmishes had taken place.

The nuclear superpower behind Kenya was India, and the one behind Sudan was China.

The author of the article counted this as a positive development, since India and China were no longer amassing troops and missiles at their common border, but had apparently graduated to the more mature behavior of the US and the SU in the previous century.

Americans and Russians had fought it out indirectly in places like Vietnam, Afghanistan, Angola and the Arab-Israel wars. Now India and China had also reached the more sophisticated levels of realpolitik, where faraway conflicts by proxy superseded the option of mutual annihilation.

Dave remembered the last time when there was a crisis between India and China, five or six years ago.

India had made two nuclear tests to show that it was serious. Then Pakistan, as an ally of China, had done three nuclear tests, to confirm that the stakes were high. Russia and her allies stated that they would protect their citizens and interests in the region, by force if necessary, and Chairman Kulachenko had met with the Indian prime minister...

The American president had said that the US will not tolerate use of weapons of mass destruction by any side, and had sent the seventh American fleet into the Indian Ocean, where the Indian and Chinese navies were already at a standoff, and suddenly the whole world was sweating and praying and markets were crashing.

In a sense, the analyst whom Dave was reading was right. Much better that Kenya and Sudan massacre each other for a while, than have global nuclear winter.

Disgusted with himself, Dave finally backtracked to the news section concerning the upcoming elections.

Again, there were tantalizing links around the article and Dave just couldn’t help himself. He chose, Indonesian President: Moon Landing Within Five Years.

He raised an eyebrow. He read the article.

In cooperation with Malaysia, Australia, and Thailand, Indonesia was working on a moon program, which apparently would allow a crew comprised of cosmonauts from the four countries in question to reach the Earth’s satellite.

There was a link to Nigeria’s space program, but Dave suppressed the impulse to check it out. He promised himself to read just one more article, before concentrating on the elections.

His choice for a last distraction was UK Hooligans Sent to Siberia. An eye-catching headline certainly.

A new law and another effort in the war against teenage binge drinking and knife crime would help send the young offenders with sentences up to five years to work in Siberian correctional camps for the duration of their sentences.

Apart from being another important stage in the ‘goodwill relations road map’ between the United Kingdom and Russia, this would limit the pressure on British jails and correctional centers, and would hopefully serve as a deterrent.

Dave tried to imagine how a generation returning from prison camps in Russia would influence British street life, and sucked some more air through his teeth.

There was a knock on his door. Maldiva popped her head through. “A Mister Parales to see you, Mister Cohran. He says he has an appointment.”

That would be Bardales the cab driver. The election news will have to wait yet again.

“Thank you, Maldiva, invite him in and ask him if he wants a coffee.”

Dave straightened himself in his chair, opened a new word file, and named it ‘Bardales’.

He was making a folder called ‘Toy-basher’, when Bardales walked into the room with a coffee in one hand and a leather cap in the other.