Cute
by Greg Michaelson
Genre: Crime/Mystery
Swearwords: None.
Description: The latest case for the Detective and the Constable turns into a game of cat and mouse.
Swearwords: None.
Description: The latest case for the Detective and the Constable turns into a game of cat and mouse.
“Do you think it’s the same group?” asked the Detective, stepping through the shop window, across the broken glass and sundered dummies. “It’s the same sort of attack.”
“And the same sort of calling card,” said the Constable, handing her a post card sized picture of a ginger kitten savaging a ball of green wool.
The Detective took the picture and turned it over. The back of the picture read:
Marriage is slavery!
“It’s not the same cat, though,” said the Detective, putting the picture into a re-sealable clear polythene bag.
“No,” said the Constable. “The last one was a tabby. Shall we call Serious Crimes?”
“Has anyone been hurt?” said the Detective.
“Not that I know of,” said the Constable.
“Let’s see where we get to with it ourselves for now,” said the Detective. “Maybe the SOCOs can turn up something. Is the proprietor here?”
“Through the back,” said the Constable.
*
In the office, the distraught proprietor was talking with the insurance company on her mobile phone.
While she waited, the Detective surveyed the shelves: certificates of diplomas in fashion; catalogues of fabrics and dress designs; photos of bonny brides; testimonials from happy couples.
“I know this isn’t a good time,” said the Detective, as the proprietor ended the call, “but we really need to talk about what’s happened. Do you have any idea who might have done this?”
“It’s those bloody feminists!” said the tearful proprietor. “I’ve told your lot time and time again, but you never take any notice, do you!”
“Have you seen anything like this before?” said the Detective, showing her the picture of the kitten.
“Of course I have!” said the proprietor. “That’s what they write their threats on. I’ve showed them to your lot already.”
“Might I see them, please?” said the Detective.
The proprietor opened a drawer and handed the Detective a small folder. Inside the folder were three more copies of the picture of the ginger kitten.
“Thank you,” said the Detective. “I’d like to take these with me, please.”
“Do what you like with them,” said the proprietor. “For all the difference it’ll make.”
“I’ll leave you my card,” said the Detective, taking the folder and adding the latest picture to it. “Do give your insurance company my details. Some of my colleagues will be along shortly. I’m sure they’ll be as quick as they can.”
“Is that it then?” said the proprietor. “Thanks for nothing.”
*
The Constable and the Detective drove back to the Police Station and went through to the main office.
“So what have we got?” said the Detective, pinning the picture of the ginger kitten onto the display board.
“Well,” said the Constable, “the first attack was the pet shop.”
“The tortoiseshell kitten,” said the Detective.
“That’s right,” said the Constable. “The message said ‘Pets are prisoners!’”
“And the second attack was the travel agents,” said the Detective. “The tabby kitten.”
“‘Tourism is colonialism!’” said the Constable. “Looks like a radical group if you ask me.”
“It’s never that straightforward, said the Detective. “Still no eyewitnesses?”
“None,” said Constable.
“Does the bride shop have CCTV?” said the Detective.
“No,” said the Constable.
“Hmmm,” said the Detective. “The messages all have the same sort of feel. Declamation. Denunciation. Do you think that the pictures have anything in common?”
“They’re all on the same weight of paper,” said the Constable, “and it looks like they’ve all been done on the same printer. There’s a slight striping about a third of the way down all of them.”
“That’s not quite what I meant,” said the Detective. “Are there any similarities in the images?”
“They look like stock pictures,” said the Constable. “The Web’s awash with cute cats.”
“Maybe we could find them,” said the Detective. “Could you scan them for me, please, and I’ll run some searches.”
“Sure thing,” said the Constable.
*
“How are you getting on?” said the Constable.
“You were right,” said the Detective. “The Web really is awash with cute cats. Still, I’ve found them. All three of them.”
“Can we trace them?” said the Constable.
“Not directly,” said the Detective. “They’re all in mass circulation. It’d take an expert to track down where they originated.”
“There’s a but, isn’t there,” said the Constable.
“But,” said the Detective, smiling, “I’ve located what might be some local clusters of people sharing our pictures.”
“How did you do that?” asked the Constable.
“Magic!” said the Detective.
“Magic?” said the Constable.
“No,” said the Detective. “I used the Home Office’s shiny new spyware. And I found all the people who have ever shared the first picture.”
“But there must be thousands of them!” said the Constable.
“Hundreds of thousands,” said the Detective. “So I looked for sharers who live roughly in our area. That narrowed it down really quickly.”
“What about the other pictures?” said the Constable.
“Once I’d found local suspects for the first picture,” said the Detective, “I looked to see if any of the same people had shared the second and third pictures.”
“And?” said the Constable.
“Well they had,” said the Detective. “But there’s still an awful lot of them.”
“How many?” said the Constable.
“Several hundred,” said the Detective.
“I can’t believe that several hundred people helped organise politically motivated attacks on local businesses,” said the Constable. “Surely we’d have heard all about them long ago.”
“Nor can I,” said the Detective. “If it really is political, I’d put my money on a tiny group or a lone wolf.”
“Should we call in Special Branch?” said the Constable. “See if any of them are in dodgy organisations?”
“Not quite yet,” said the Detective. “Let’s sleep on it.”
*
When the Detective came into the Police Station the next morning, the Constable was already at his desk.
“You’re in early,” said the Detective.
“I’ve a head full of cute kittens,” said the Constable.
“Have you got any ideas?” said the Detective.
“I’ve been thinking,” said the Constable. “What if the kittens are messages?”
“Like metaphors?” said the Detective. “As if to say, look at the innocence you’ve destroyed?”
“Not metaphors,” said the Constable. “Literally messages.”
“How do you mean?” said the Detective.
“What if there’s information hidden in the images?” said the Constable.
“How would that work?” said the Detective.
“Well,” said the Constable, “yesterday afternoon my wee girl came home from primary school talking about codes.”
“That’ll be the Turing centenary?” said the Detective. “Bletchley Park?”
“That’s right,” said the Constable. “And she mentioned something called steganography.”
“Sounds more like dinosaurs,” said the Detective.
“That’s stegosauruses,” said the Constable. “They did those last year. Anyway, I looked up steganography. It’s where you hide messages in a picture by making changes to the colours. If the changes are small enough, nobody will notice them.”
“Interesting!” said the Detective.
“Do you think there might be something in it?” said the Constable.
“I’ve no idea,” said the Detective. “But I know someone who might.”
*
The Constable parked the police car in the spot marked “Deputy Principal”. Then he and the Detective crossed the square past the medieval tower and entered the tall glass and concrete building.
“This way,” said the Detective, turning left along the corridor. “Third floor.”
They went up the stairs and entered a large open plan office.
“Fancy seeing you here!” said the Professor, standing up and crossing the cubicle. “How are you doing? Still protecting the guilty and punishing the innocent?”
“Something like that,” said the Detective. “And you? Still corrupting young minds?”
“Certainly hope so!” said the Professor.
The Professor and the Detective hugged warmly.
“Do have a seat,” said the Professor, clearing piles of unmarked exam scripts from two chairs. “How can I help?”
The Detective quickly explained the case, and showed the Professor the cat pictures.
“We were wondering,” said the Constable. “If we scanned the images, could we compare them to find the hidden messages?”
“If only it were that simple,” said the Professor, “but if there are any hidden messages, they’re in the digital codes, and we can’t get at them simply by scanning them.”
“I don’t see that,” said the Constable.
“Well,” said the Professor, “do you guys still carry magnifying glasses?”
“Certainly do,” said the Detective, fossicking for her Scots Army Knife in her hand bag.
“Thanks,” said the Professor, taking the knife and unfolding the glass.
She held the glass up in front of the laptop screen.
“Here,” she said. “Have a look.”
The Constable bent over the glass.
“Lots of little points of colour,” said the Constable.
“Exactly,” said the Professor. “They’re called pixels. In a computer, each one’s represented by three numbers, for the amounts of red, green and blue. If they’re all zero then you get a black pixel. And if they’re all 255 you get a white one. Or maybe it’s the other way round.”
“Would bright red be 255 and zero and zero?” said the Detective.
“Exactly!” said the Professor. “And bright blue might be zero and 255 and zero.”
“So why can’t we get the pixels by scanning?” said the Constable.
“If you scan a printed image,” said the Professor, “there’s no way you can guarantee to align it so that you’ll get precisely the same set of pixels that were used to print it. Think about how hard it is to make a precisely framed photocopy of something. The edges are never quite straight.”
“So what can we do?” said the Detective.
“Find the original on-line,” said the Professor. “And find all the copies on-line, and see if they’re different.”
“I don’t suppose…,” said the Detective.
The Professor sighed and gesticulated at the piles of marking.
“Aye well,” said the Detective. “We’d best be off.”
“I tell you what,” said the Professor. “Our team’s got software for comparing images. I can let you have a copy. It’ll tell you how much they’re different as well.”
“You’re the computer whizz…” said the Detective, looking at the Constable.
“Thanks a bundle,” said the Constable.
*
The Detective drove the Constable back to the Police Station.
“Why do you not think it’s some radical group?” said the Constable.
“Look at the shops that have been targeted,” said the Detective. “Why not butchers? Or garages?”
“Maybe they’re next,” said the Constable.
“Maybe,” said the Detective, “but I think there’s some pattern that we’re missing.”
*
“This is hopeless,” said the Constable, looking up from the keyboard. “We’ve got all the ginger kittens shared by our pool of suspects, but how do we know which one is the original?”
“Aren’t the images date stamped?” said the Detective.
“No,” said the Constable. “We do know when they were shared, but that doesn’t tell us when they were created.”
“Can you separate out the different ones?” said the Detective.
“I’ve done that,” said the Constable. “But there are so many of them. Trying all the pairs’ll take forever. I’ve made a start but the differences always look like gibberish.”
“Might that be another code?” said the Detective.
“I suppose so,” said the Constable, “but that’s way beyond my pay grade. We really need some more help with this.”
“Let me take another look,” said the Detective.
*
“Come on!” said the Detective, standing up and putting on her coat.
“Where are we going?” said the Constable.
“The Poetry Library,” said the Detective.
“The Poetry Library?” said the Constable.
“You’ll see,” said the Detective.
*
They left the police car at the bottom of the Canongate, just before the Parliament, and followed the close to the Poetry Library. Showing their warrant cards to the bemused man at the reception desk, they took the stairs up to the mezzanine meeting space. A group of young men and women sat in a circle round a table, copies of Paradise Lost open on the table in front of them.
“Is this the Milton study group?” said the Detective. “We’re the police.”
The man with the gold-rimmed glasses leapt up and vaulted over the banister. He screamed and fell silent as his head bounced off the edge of the table of poetry pamphlets.
“Best call an ambulance!” shouted the Constable, rushing down the stairs.
*
The Detective and the Constable sat in the A & E corridor.
“How on earth did you make the Poetry Library connection?” said the Constable.
“I spotted a core of local kitten lovers who all liked the same poetry group page,” said the Detective, “and I saw that they were meeting today. So I took a punt.”
“What about the others at the Library?” said the Constable. “Do you think they’re all in on it?”
“Most seemed as baffled as we were,” said the Detective. “This’ll be our man.”
“So who were all the messages for?” said the Constable.
“That’s a good question,” said the Detective.
The Doctor came out of the operating theatre.
“How’s he doing?” said the Detective.
“He’ll live,” said the Doctor, “But he’ll have one hell of a headache.”
“Can we see him?” said the Constable.
“Come on!” said the Doctor. “He’s just had major surgery. I’ll let you know when he can talk.”
“Should we put a guard on his ward?” said the Constable.
“No need,” said the Doctor. “He’s not going anywhere.”
*
Back at the Police Station, the Detective reported to the Chief Inspector.
“What did he say?” said the Constable, when she returned to the office.
“He says it’s not a priority,” said the Detective. “So no more help. We’re to carry on digging and keep him posted. What have you found?”
“Our man doesn’t have a record,” said the Constable. “But I still reckon he’s a nut job.”
“He’s certainly anti-social,” said the Detective. “But I don’t think he’s crazy.”
“You’re soft,” said the Constable.
“Someone has to be,” said the Detective. “Have you got anything else on him?”
“I’ve found some strange poetry he posted to that group,” said the Constable. “Really strange.”
“Let’s have a look,” said the Detective.
“It reads like gibberish,” said the Constable, swivelling round his monitor.
“Invoke nothing
aim huge sorrow darkness
He He immortal now
of Of Arch-fiend of off BRIARIOS
his unusual their its
And lye some GOSHEN
in which all each and prey
RABBA Grove Of condens't by he
After from GIBEAH
Heav'n strait rose in then Towr
revenge round with shun'd foe bands
the and discover Men power
the on the began
give free is rather who”
declaimed the Detective. “Very interesting! We should pay the Professor another visit.”
“But I thought she was a Computer Scientist,” said the Constable.
“That she is,” said the Detective. “Come on.”
*
“Back already?” said the Professor. “I’ve barely got going on all this bloody marking.”
“Can we interrupt you for long enough to show you something?” said the Detective.
“Seeing it’s you,” said the Professor, putting down the red pen.
The Constable moused up the suspect’s post.
“Paradise Lost!” said the Professor.
“That’s what they were reading in the group!” said the Constable.
“Exactly!” said the Detective. “But it looks random.”
“Not quite,” said the Professor. “It’s a cipher. Let’s find the original online. I’m sure there’s one on Gutenburg.”
The Professor’s fingers flew over the keyboard.
“Here we go,” said the Professor, reading:
“PARADISE LOST
BOOK I.
Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit
Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast
Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of EDEN, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,
Sing Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top
Of OREB, or of SINAI, didst inspire
That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,
In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth
Rose out of CHAOS: Or if SION Hill
Delight thee more, and SILOA'S Brook that flow'd
Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence
Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song…”
“Invoke!” said the Constable. “That’s the first word!”
“Indeed!” said the Professor. “How many words is that from the start?”
“One hundred and four,” said the Constable, after a pause.
“That’s an ‘h’,” said the Professor, promptly. “In ASCII.”
“What’s ASCII?” said the Detective.
“American Standard Code for Information Interchange,” said the Professor. “How many more words ‘til you get to nothing?”
“One hundred and sixteen,” said the Constable, after another pause.
“That’s a ‘t’,” said the Professor. “aim next.”
“One hundred and sixteen again,” said the Constable, after another pause. “Another ‘t’…”
“‘http’!” said the Detective. “It’s a URL. I don’t suppose…”
“Go and have a cup of tea,” said the Professor. “Give me half an hour. Since you’re asking, a Macchiato with two sugars, please. Whatever you do, avoid the Cappuccino.”
*
“So what have you got for us?” said the Detective, proffering the cardboard cup.
“Thanks!” said the Professor. “You were right. It is a URL. Have a look.”
http://www.vetprofessionals.com/catprofessional/images/home-cat.jpg,” read the Constable. “What’s the link?”
“Surprise!” said the Professor.
She hit the return key and:
“And the same sort of calling card,” said the Constable, handing her a post card sized picture of a ginger kitten savaging a ball of green wool.
The Detective took the picture and turned it over. The back of the picture read:
Marriage is slavery!
“It’s not the same cat, though,” said the Detective, putting the picture into a re-sealable clear polythene bag.
“No,” said the Constable. “The last one was a tabby. Shall we call Serious Crimes?”
“Has anyone been hurt?” said the Detective.
“Not that I know of,” said the Constable.
“Let’s see where we get to with it ourselves for now,” said the Detective. “Maybe the SOCOs can turn up something. Is the proprietor here?”
“Through the back,” said the Constable.
*
In the office, the distraught proprietor was talking with the insurance company on her mobile phone.
While she waited, the Detective surveyed the shelves: certificates of diplomas in fashion; catalogues of fabrics and dress designs; photos of bonny brides; testimonials from happy couples.
“I know this isn’t a good time,” said the Detective, as the proprietor ended the call, “but we really need to talk about what’s happened. Do you have any idea who might have done this?”
“It’s those bloody feminists!” said the tearful proprietor. “I’ve told your lot time and time again, but you never take any notice, do you!”
“Have you seen anything like this before?” said the Detective, showing her the picture of the kitten.
“Of course I have!” said the proprietor. “That’s what they write their threats on. I’ve showed them to your lot already.”
“Might I see them, please?” said the Detective.
The proprietor opened a drawer and handed the Detective a small folder. Inside the folder were three more copies of the picture of the ginger kitten.
“Thank you,” said the Detective. “I’d like to take these with me, please.”
“Do what you like with them,” said the proprietor. “For all the difference it’ll make.”
“I’ll leave you my card,” said the Detective, taking the folder and adding the latest picture to it. “Do give your insurance company my details. Some of my colleagues will be along shortly. I’m sure they’ll be as quick as they can.”
“Is that it then?” said the proprietor. “Thanks for nothing.”
*
The Constable and the Detective drove back to the Police Station and went through to the main office.
“So what have we got?” said the Detective, pinning the picture of the ginger kitten onto the display board.
“Well,” said the Constable, “the first attack was the pet shop.”
“The tortoiseshell kitten,” said the Detective.
“That’s right,” said the Constable. “The message said ‘Pets are prisoners!’”
“And the second attack was the travel agents,” said the Detective. “The tabby kitten.”
“‘Tourism is colonialism!’” said the Constable. “Looks like a radical group if you ask me.”
“It’s never that straightforward, said the Detective. “Still no eyewitnesses?”
“None,” said Constable.
“Does the bride shop have CCTV?” said the Detective.
“No,” said the Constable.
“Hmmm,” said the Detective. “The messages all have the same sort of feel. Declamation. Denunciation. Do you think that the pictures have anything in common?”
“They’re all on the same weight of paper,” said the Constable, “and it looks like they’ve all been done on the same printer. There’s a slight striping about a third of the way down all of them.”
“That’s not quite what I meant,” said the Detective. “Are there any similarities in the images?”
“They look like stock pictures,” said the Constable. “The Web’s awash with cute cats.”
“Maybe we could find them,” said the Detective. “Could you scan them for me, please, and I’ll run some searches.”
“Sure thing,” said the Constable.
*
“How are you getting on?” said the Constable.
“You were right,” said the Detective. “The Web really is awash with cute cats. Still, I’ve found them. All three of them.”
“Can we trace them?” said the Constable.
“Not directly,” said the Detective. “They’re all in mass circulation. It’d take an expert to track down where they originated.”
“There’s a but, isn’t there,” said the Constable.
“But,” said the Detective, smiling, “I’ve located what might be some local clusters of people sharing our pictures.”
“How did you do that?” asked the Constable.
“Magic!” said the Detective.
“Magic?” said the Constable.
“No,” said the Detective. “I used the Home Office’s shiny new spyware. And I found all the people who have ever shared the first picture.”
“But there must be thousands of them!” said the Constable.
“Hundreds of thousands,” said the Detective. “So I looked for sharers who live roughly in our area. That narrowed it down really quickly.”
“What about the other pictures?” said the Constable.
“Once I’d found local suspects for the first picture,” said the Detective, “I looked to see if any of the same people had shared the second and third pictures.”
“And?” said the Constable.
“Well they had,” said the Detective. “But there’s still an awful lot of them.”
“How many?” said the Constable.
“Several hundred,” said the Detective.
“I can’t believe that several hundred people helped organise politically motivated attacks on local businesses,” said the Constable. “Surely we’d have heard all about them long ago.”
“Nor can I,” said the Detective. “If it really is political, I’d put my money on a tiny group or a lone wolf.”
“Should we call in Special Branch?” said the Constable. “See if any of them are in dodgy organisations?”
“Not quite yet,” said the Detective. “Let’s sleep on it.”
*
When the Detective came into the Police Station the next morning, the Constable was already at his desk.
“You’re in early,” said the Detective.
“I’ve a head full of cute kittens,” said the Constable.
“Have you got any ideas?” said the Detective.
“I’ve been thinking,” said the Constable. “What if the kittens are messages?”
“Like metaphors?” said the Detective. “As if to say, look at the innocence you’ve destroyed?”
“Not metaphors,” said the Constable. “Literally messages.”
“How do you mean?” said the Detective.
“What if there’s information hidden in the images?” said the Constable.
“How would that work?” said the Detective.
“Well,” said the Constable, “yesterday afternoon my wee girl came home from primary school talking about codes.”
“That’ll be the Turing centenary?” said the Detective. “Bletchley Park?”
“That’s right,” said the Constable. “And she mentioned something called steganography.”
“Sounds more like dinosaurs,” said the Detective.
“That’s stegosauruses,” said the Constable. “They did those last year. Anyway, I looked up steganography. It’s where you hide messages in a picture by making changes to the colours. If the changes are small enough, nobody will notice them.”
“Interesting!” said the Detective.
“Do you think there might be something in it?” said the Constable.
“I’ve no idea,” said the Detective. “But I know someone who might.”
*
The Constable parked the police car in the spot marked “Deputy Principal”. Then he and the Detective crossed the square past the medieval tower and entered the tall glass and concrete building.
“This way,” said the Detective, turning left along the corridor. “Third floor.”
They went up the stairs and entered a large open plan office.
“Fancy seeing you here!” said the Professor, standing up and crossing the cubicle. “How are you doing? Still protecting the guilty and punishing the innocent?”
“Something like that,” said the Detective. “And you? Still corrupting young minds?”
“Certainly hope so!” said the Professor.
The Professor and the Detective hugged warmly.
“Do have a seat,” said the Professor, clearing piles of unmarked exam scripts from two chairs. “How can I help?”
The Detective quickly explained the case, and showed the Professor the cat pictures.
“We were wondering,” said the Constable. “If we scanned the images, could we compare them to find the hidden messages?”
“If only it were that simple,” said the Professor, “but if there are any hidden messages, they’re in the digital codes, and we can’t get at them simply by scanning them.”
“I don’t see that,” said the Constable.
“Well,” said the Professor, “do you guys still carry magnifying glasses?”
“Certainly do,” said the Detective, fossicking for her Scots Army Knife in her hand bag.
“Thanks,” said the Professor, taking the knife and unfolding the glass.
She held the glass up in front of the laptop screen.
“Here,” she said. “Have a look.”
The Constable bent over the glass.
“Lots of little points of colour,” said the Constable.
“Exactly,” said the Professor. “They’re called pixels. In a computer, each one’s represented by three numbers, for the amounts of red, green and blue. If they’re all zero then you get a black pixel. And if they’re all 255 you get a white one. Or maybe it’s the other way round.”
“Would bright red be 255 and zero and zero?” said the Detective.
“Exactly!” said the Professor. “And bright blue might be zero and 255 and zero.”
“So why can’t we get the pixels by scanning?” said the Constable.
“If you scan a printed image,” said the Professor, “there’s no way you can guarantee to align it so that you’ll get precisely the same set of pixels that were used to print it. Think about how hard it is to make a precisely framed photocopy of something. The edges are never quite straight.”
“So what can we do?” said the Detective.
“Find the original on-line,” said the Professor. “And find all the copies on-line, and see if they’re different.”
“I don’t suppose…,” said the Detective.
The Professor sighed and gesticulated at the piles of marking.
“Aye well,” said the Detective. “We’d best be off.”
“I tell you what,” said the Professor. “Our team’s got software for comparing images. I can let you have a copy. It’ll tell you how much they’re different as well.”
“You’re the computer whizz…” said the Detective, looking at the Constable.
“Thanks a bundle,” said the Constable.
*
The Detective drove the Constable back to the Police Station.
“Why do you not think it’s some radical group?” said the Constable.
“Look at the shops that have been targeted,” said the Detective. “Why not butchers? Or garages?”
“Maybe they’re next,” said the Constable.
“Maybe,” said the Detective, “but I think there’s some pattern that we’re missing.”
*
“This is hopeless,” said the Constable, looking up from the keyboard. “We’ve got all the ginger kittens shared by our pool of suspects, but how do we know which one is the original?”
“Aren’t the images date stamped?” said the Detective.
“No,” said the Constable. “We do know when they were shared, but that doesn’t tell us when they were created.”
“Can you separate out the different ones?” said the Detective.
“I’ve done that,” said the Constable. “But there are so many of them. Trying all the pairs’ll take forever. I’ve made a start but the differences always look like gibberish.”
“Might that be another code?” said the Detective.
“I suppose so,” said the Constable, “but that’s way beyond my pay grade. We really need some more help with this.”
“Let me take another look,” said the Detective.
*
“Come on!” said the Detective, standing up and putting on her coat.
“Where are we going?” said the Constable.
“The Poetry Library,” said the Detective.
“The Poetry Library?” said the Constable.
“You’ll see,” said the Detective.
*
They left the police car at the bottom of the Canongate, just before the Parliament, and followed the close to the Poetry Library. Showing their warrant cards to the bemused man at the reception desk, they took the stairs up to the mezzanine meeting space. A group of young men and women sat in a circle round a table, copies of Paradise Lost open on the table in front of them.
“Is this the Milton study group?” said the Detective. “We’re the police.”
The man with the gold-rimmed glasses leapt up and vaulted over the banister. He screamed and fell silent as his head bounced off the edge of the table of poetry pamphlets.
“Best call an ambulance!” shouted the Constable, rushing down the stairs.
*
The Detective and the Constable sat in the A & E corridor.
“How on earth did you make the Poetry Library connection?” said the Constable.
“I spotted a core of local kitten lovers who all liked the same poetry group page,” said the Detective, “and I saw that they were meeting today. So I took a punt.”
“What about the others at the Library?” said the Constable. “Do you think they’re all in on it?”
“Most seemed as baffled as we were,” said the Detective. “This’ll be our man.”
“So who were all the messages for?” said the Constable.
“That’s a good question,” said the Detective.
The Doctor came out of the operating theatre.
“How’s he doing?” said the Detective.
“He’ll live,” said the Doctor, “But he’ll have one hell of a headache.”
“Can we see him?” said the Constable.
“Come on!” said the Doctor. “He’s just had major surgery. I’ll let you know when he can talk.”
“Should we put a guard on his ward?” said the Constable.
“No need,” said the Doctor. “He’s not going anywhere.”
*
Back at the Police Station, the Detective reported to the Chief Inspector.
“What did he say?” said the Constable, when she returned to the office.
“He says it’s not a priority,” said the Detective. “So no more help. We’re to carry on digging and keep him posted. What have you found?”
“Our man doesn’t have a record,” said the Constable. “But I still reckon he’s a nut job.”
“He’s certainly anti-social,” said the Detective. “But I don’t think he’s crazy.”
“You’re soft,” said the Constable.
“Someone has to be,” said the Detective. “Have you got anything else on him?”
“I’ve found some strange poetry he posted to that group,” said the Constable. “Really strange.”
“Let’s have a look,” said the Detective.
“It reads like gibberish,” said the Constable, swivelling round his monitor.
“Invoke nothing
aim huge sorrow darkness
He He immortal now
of Of Arch-fiend of off BRIARIOS
his unusual their its
And lye some GOSHEN
in which all each and prey
RABBA Grove Of condens't by he
After from GIBEAH
Heav'n strait rose in then Towr
revenge round with shun'd foe bands
the and discover Men power
the on the began
give free is rather who”
declaimed the Detective. “Very interesting! We should pay the Professor another visit.”
“But I thought she was a Computer Scientist,” said the Constable.
“That she is,” said the Detective. “Come on.”
*
“Back already?” said the Professor. “I’ve barely got going on all this bloody marking.”
“Can we interrupt you for long enough to show you something?” said the Detective.
“Seeing it’s you,” said the Professor, putting down the red pen.
The Constable moused up the suspect’s post.
“Paradise Lost!” said the Professor.
“That’s what they were reading in the group!” said the Constable.
“Exactly!” said the Detective. “But it looks random.”
“Not quite,” said the Professor. “It’s a cipher. Let’s find the original online. I’m sure there’s one on Gutenburg.”
The Professor’s fingers flew over the keyboard.
“Here we go,” said the Professor, reading:
“PARADISE LOST
BOOK I.
Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit
Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast
Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of EDEN, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,
Sing Heav'nly Muse, that on the secret top
Of OREB, or of SINAI, didst inspire
That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,
In the Beginning how the Heav'ns and Earth
Rose out of CHAOS: Or if SION Hill
Delight thee more, and SILOA'S Brook that flow'd
Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence
Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song…”
“Invoke!” said the Constable. “That’s the first word!”
“Indeed!” said the Professor. “How many words is that from the start?”
“One hundred and four,” said the Constable, after a pause.
“That’s an ‘h’,” said the Professor, promptly. “In ASCII.”
“What’s ASCII?” said the Detective.
“American Standard Code for Information Interchange,” said the Professor. “How many more words ‘til you get to nothing?”
“One hundred and sixteen,” said the Constable, after another pause.
“That’s a ‘t’,” said the Professor. “aim next.”
“One hundred and sixteen again,” said the Constable, after another pause. “Another ‘t’…”
“‘http’!” said the Detective. “It’s a URL. I don’t suppose…”
“Go and have a cup of tea,” said the Professor. “Give me half an hour. Since you’re asking, a Macchiato with two sugars, please. Whatever you do, avoid the Cappuccino.”
*
“So what have you got for us?” said the Detective, proffering the cardboard cup.
“Thanks!” said the Professor. “You were right. It is a URL. Have a look.”
http://www.vetprofessionals.com/catprofessional/images/home-cat.jpg,” read the Constable. “What’s the link?”
“Surprise!” said the Professor.
She hit the return key and:
appeared on the screen.
“That’s the tabby!” said the Constable. “Tourism is colonialism!”
“Certainly is!” said the Professor. “All you need to do now is start with this one, and use the software to compare it with the other images to find the hidden messages.”
“That’s great!,” said the Detective. “Thank you so much!”
“Anytime,” said the Professor. “Always happy to help the bobby on the beat.”
*
“What now?” said the Constable, as they approached the police car.
“I’m heading back to the hospital,” said the Detective.
“Shall I come with you?” said the Constable.
“No need,” said the Detective. “I’ll drop you off at the station. You can make a start on the messages.”
*
“How are you getting on?” said the Detective, coming into the office, a couple of hours later.
“Good,” said the Constable. “How’s the patient?”
“Howling like a tom cat,” said the Detective. “He’s not with a group.”
“I could have told you that,” said the Constable, smugly.
“Really!” said the Detective. “What have you found?”
“Well, I suppose he is with a group,” said the Constable, “but they’re property developers. The aim was to scare the shop owners into selling up.”
“Well done!” said the Detective. “And our man say he’s their muscle.”
“Muscle?” said the Constable. “But he’s dead weedy. And he’s into poetry.”
“You’ve got strange ideas about poets,” said the Detective. “They need to eat, just like us, and I doubt there’s much of a market for poetry. Besides, all he had to do was break windows.”
“Did he tell you how they recruited him?” said the Constable. “And how did he make the messages? I can’t believe he did it all by hand.”
“He says it was organised anonymously through a dark web site,” said the Detective. “They distribute the app to handle the messages in the images as well.”
“Should I chase down the site?” said the Constable. “I’m totally sick of looking at cute cats.”
“I’m afraid not,” said the Detective. “It’s based in Manchuria, so it’s way beyond our jurisdiction. We’re to pass on what we know to Cyber Crime.”
“Is that it then?” said the Constable.
“Not quite,” said the Detective. “We’ve a few more calls to make. Come on...”
“That’s the tabby!” said the Constable. “Tourism is colonialism!”
“Certainly is!” said the Professor. “All you need to do now is start with this one, and use the software to compare it with the other images to find the hidden messages.”
“That’s great!,” said the Detective. “Thank you so much!”
“Anytime,” said the Professor. “Always happy to help the bobby on the beat.”
*
“What now?” said the Constable, as they approached the police car.
“I’m heading back to the hospital,” said the Detective.
“Shall I come with you?” said the Constable.
“No need,” said the Detective. “I’ll drop you off at the station. You can make a start on the messages.”
*
“How are you getting on?” said the Detective, coming into the office, a couple of hours later.
“Good,” said the Constable. “How’s the patient?”
“Howling like a tom cat,” said the Detective. “He’s not with a group.”
“I could have told you that,” said the Constable, smugly.
“Really!” said the Detective. “What have you found?”
“Well, I suppose he is with a group,” said the Constable, “but they’re property developers. The aim was to scare the shop owners into selling up.”
“Well done!” said the Detective. “And our man say he’s their muscle.”
“Muscle?” said the Constable. “But he’s dead weedy. And he’s into poetry.”
“You’ve got strange ideas about poets,” said the Detective. “They need to eat, just like us, and I doubt there’s much of a market for poetry. Besides, all he had to do was break windows.”
“Did he tell you how they recruited him?” said the Constable. “And how did he make the messages? I can’t believe he did it all by hand.”
“He says it was organised anonymously through a dark web site,” said the Detective. “They distribute the app to handle the messages in the images as well.”
“Should I chase down the site?” said the Constable. “I’m totally sick of looking at cute cats.”
“I’m afraid not,” said the Detective. “It’s based in Manchuria, so it’s way beyond our jurisdiction. We’re to pass on what we know to Cyber Crime.”
“Is that it then?” said the Constable.
“Not quite,” said the Detective. “We’ve a few more calls to make. Come on...”
About the Author
Greg Michaelson has been publishing short stories since 2001. His first novel The Wave Singer (Argyll, 2008) was shortlisted for a Scottish Arts Council/Scottish Mortgage Trust First Book Award. His second novel Singing About The Dark Timeswas self-published in 2014. Greg, who lives and works in Edinburgh, likes to write about how things aren't and how they might be.