The Dark Web Murders

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Thursday, 23rd August, Afternoon

McCullough's phone rang, and he put it to his ear. He listened for a few seconds and put the phone back in his pocket. "That's reception," he told the others. "Sam Gardener's just arrived. I'll go down and get him." 

The team was still in the Serious Crimes Room, studying the cryptic poem Nemein had written. In the interim, McBride had used his computer skills to project the poem, via a PowerPoint presentation, on to one of the white evidence screens. They were now studying the screen, reading and re-reading the poem as they sought for clues that might help them identify the next victim. At this point, however, they were no further forward than they had been when Sheehan dashed out. 

They heard the elevator doors in the corridor opening and seconds later McCullough led their visitor into the room. He was elderly, white-haired, a bit stooped, but as he glanced around the room, there was a sharp, intelligent twinkle in his eye that belied the dry nature of the work he had done during his employment years. 

 "This is Sam Gardener," McCullough said to the team. "He has kindly offered to help us break this code." 

Gardener raised an arm in greeting, smiling in acknowledgement of the nods he was receiving. But it was clear that he was keen to see what was causing the problem and turned quickly to the screen. He seemed unable to take his eyes from the poem, and he fiddled a hand behind him, seeking to locate the empty chair that had been left for him a few paces in front of the screen. He was already searching for hidden clues even before he had settled awkwardly on the seat. "So this is the famous poem Sergeant McCullough has been telling me about," he said heartily. He stared intently at it for a few moments more and said off-handedly to McCullough, "So what do you think we have here, Sergeant? Code or cipher?" 

McCullough looked blank, his eyes searching for help from his colleagues. None was forthcoming. "Your guess is as good as mine, Sam," he finally hazarded. 

Miller laughed. "I'd say Sam's guess might have the edge, Sarge." 

"What's the difference, sir?" McBride asked. 

"Well, when you substitute one word or sentence with another word, or even mix them up in certain ways, you're using a code. When you mix up the letters, or replace them with alternative letters, you are using a cipher." 

Blank eyes stared at other blank eyes, but no one pushed Gardener for further explanation. The elderly cryptographer sat in his chair, hunched forwards, elbows on his knees, reading slowly through the text. His expression was a mixture of concern and puzzlement. "Good gracious. Your villain certainly has it in for his next victim. This is horrendous." 

"See anything that might lead us to the monumental clue he says is there?" Connors asked. 

"Not yet, I'm afraid. If this is a code, the surface text is remarkably complete and uncluttered." He studied the screen again, muttering to himself. He turned to McCullough. "Could I have something to write on, please?" 

 McCullough lifted a couple of blank pages from his desk and handed them to him. Gardener took a pen from his pocket and wrote a couple of lines on one of the pages. Then he crossed them out with some violence. Again, after another close examination of the poem, he wrote some further lines of notes, almost immediately scratching his pen through them as well, looking irritated. "It's not a transposition cipher either," he muttered, sounding cross. "So what the heck is it?" 

He sat back on the chair and folded his arms, still staring intently at the screen. "If this is code and there was an algorithm used to encipher it, I can't for the life of me spot any trace of it. And even if I did, we'd need the key used with the algorithm to decipher the message."