“Sphinx Wheels Fright” by Richard Garcka

 

The crisis was averted just in time. Robert hurriedly excavated his scrambled egg away from the toast with the flat of his knife, re-establishing the required buffer zone. Different food on a plate must never come into contact – the very thought flashed in brown in his mind. Brown was his alarm colour. The action of walking on the gaps between paving-slabs appeared brown. Wednesday was a brown day, so was the number twenty-four. Robert experienced thoughts as colours. Doctors had a fancy name for it but he had lived with it for all his twenty-six years. It was just how he was. 

As luck would have it, that morning was a Wednesday and Robert was asked to attend the police station. Since he did not much like brown things, he lingered outside for a while, before deciding to go in. Why did he agree to help the Detective on a brown day? There was never any good to come from the colour brown, though he could not for the moment recall why Wednesdays or the number twenty-four should trouble him. To console himself, he took his time in counting the fourteen steps from the doorway to the reception desk, the twelve chairs in the waiting area and the three CCTV cameras. 

“Can I help you, sir?” 

To Robert, the Constable behind the counter reminded him of the number fifteen, which always seemed menacing, and he once again considered going home. The man had a raised eyebrow as he looked Robert up and down. Sometimes, people’s feelings were not easy for Robert to understand. Perhaps the Constable thought his jeans were too scruffy? His parka too rumpled? His hair too unkempt? People told Robert he looked like a homeless person despite his youthful face. A fallen angel, the Detective once called him. 

“DI Balinska is expecting me,” announced Robert, hoping that would make everything right. “I’m Robert Dudek,” he then added, remembering that officials often needed to hear you say your name even if they had it written down in front of them.

“I’ll check,” he announced turning to his monitor, eyebrow still raised while he typed with one big fat middle finger. Thomas noticed his badge.

“The number of minutes in a day.”

“Sorry, Mr Dudek?” The Constable looked up.

“Your badge number. 1440. The number of minutes in a day. Or the sum of the internal angles of a decagon.” The Constable stared blankly. “Or thirty-six squared plus twelve squared. Whichever you’d prefer.” Robert added this last part in the hope the Constable would stop staring. 

“Of course it is, sir.” 

“I like numbers. It’s what I do.”

“Good for you, son.”

Robert was not his son, but he guessed that the Constable was being friendly, so he smiled, which sometimes seemed to help move things along. Apart from when he was in a pub that time and it seemed to make things worse. Robert was about to explain just how good with numbers he was, when he heard a voice behind him.

“Bobby, my friend. Good to see you. I’ll take it from here Geoff. If you could just let our guest have a pass…”

Detective Inspector Sophi Balinska had emerged from a side door and Robert was relieved to see her sort everything out with Geoff the Constable. The Detective reminded him of a thirteen, a warm glowing prime number. A lanyard was placed around his neck and Robert immediately noticed the pass number.

“Seventeen, DI Balinska. The only prime number the sum of four consecutive primes.”

“Ah, you explained this last time. A prime is a number which can only be divided by one or itself. Wait a minute.” The Detective looked up at the ceiling while she thought. Robert did not need to study ceilings to work things out. In his mind, the numbers swirled around like a big whirlpool, all representing colours and shapes. “Got it, two plus three plus five plus seven makes seventeen, right? And do call me Sophi.”

“That’s correct, DI Balinska. Thank you. And I will call you Sophi, Sophi.”

The Detective smiled and led Robert through the side door, along a corridor and down some stairs, which Robert had to count. Now that he had found some numbers to think about, he felt less unhappy about coming to the police station on a brown day. He liked seeing DI Balinska too since she smiled a lot. Robert helped the police sometimes when they had problems catching villains. Problems to do with puzzles or numbers. Robert found solving puzzles easier than other people. He had a way of unravelling the different parts in his mind then finding connections which made everything work. Shapes and colours were important. 

Along another corridor they met a man at a desk with a nameplate which said Custody Officer, beside a heavy door with a keypad showing the numbers zero to nine. 

“Morning Sam. We’re here to interview Daniel Westcott.”

“Right you are, guv’nor. And who might this be?”

“I’m Robert Dudek,” said Robert, remembering the importance of names.

“He’s a civilian consultant. Registered on the Expert Advisers Database. All above board. Here’s the paperwork.” 

After lots of paper was checked, signed and re-checked, then a phone call made, Sam lead them through the doorway by entering the code. Robert was about to tell Sam the significance of the number when Sophi nudged him and held her index finger to her lips. Robert guessed that this meant he should not speak the number out loud so he kept quiet.

“Will our Mr Westcott be expecting his solicitor to attend?” asked Sam as they walked along a row of six reinforced doors, each with little inspection windows bolted shut.

“He’s waived his rights, Sam. Our Mr Westcott believes he has no need for legal advice.”

They exchanged glances, though Robert did not know why, before arriving at somewhere called the Interrogation Room.

“Give us ten minutes, Sam, then bring him in, will you?”

“Will do, guv’nor.”

Sam left and Sophi turned to Robert.

“Listen, Bobby. What I’m about to tell you is serious.”

Robert held the Detective’s gaze, which was something he did not like to do, but he knew that people expected it when matters were serious. In fact, everything was serious to Robert, so the Detective did not need to point it out.

“This Westcott is a cool customer. Very smart. Very well spoken. Used to be a maths professor before he retired. Now lives in a fancy house. Neighbours say he seems nice enough but keeps himself to himself, that sort of thing.”

Robert did not know what sort of thing that sort of thing was, but he nodded like he understood.

“Thing is, we have CCTV footage showing his vehicle in the vicinity of where a girl went missing a week ago. The one in all the papers. Aya Samir. Seventeen years old. Walking back from a party at three in the morning. His is the only car spotted in the area at the time. He won’t say why he was there. Won’t say much at all in fact. Just spouts numbers at us all the time.”

 “Numbers?”

“Thought that might interest you,” said Sophi, “and there’s more to it. We’ve linked this missing girl to seven others across the country in the last six years. Similar MO. Bodies never discovered. A car of the same make was spotted at two of the scenes but this is the first time we’ve captured the numberplate. This Westcott looks like a serial killer. He’s being held as a suspect but we’ve no real evidence. We’ve permission to hold him for up to ninety-six hours…” Robert made to interrupt to explain the importance of the number ninety-six but Sophi held up her hand to stop him. “…and that runs out at six tonight.”

Robert thought for a moment.

“What do you want me to do then, Sophi?”

“Figure out what these numbers mean – Westcott says it’s all there but he’ll only explain more to someone who…hang on…what did he say…” Sophi searched through her notes on her phone, “Oh yes. He said, bring me someone who can talk my language and I’ll tell you everything you need to know. Word for word. I think this creep wants to be caught, like he’s a show-off. Wants everyone to know that he’s the Lord of the Numbers or something.”

“You must have had the numbers analysed?”

Sophi looked down at her phone and scrolled through.

“Over and over. Thought they might be GPS co-ordinates or a cypher of some kind. Ran them through a computer. Nothing. And he adds to them each time. You’re the top of my list when it comes to this sort of thing, Bobby. See what you can figure out, eh? For Aya’s sake.”

“I will try, Sophi.”

There were four knocks on the door and Sam poked his head round.

“Ready, guv’nor?”

“Yes. Bring him in, Sergeant.”

Sam the Sergeant entered followed by another man, whom Robert took to be Daniel Westcott.  He was tall, even taller than Geoff the Constable who claimed to be Robert’s dad. He had white hair and stood very upright. Robert thought he might be a very good maths professor. The sort you would listen to. Sam remained inside after closing the door, while Westcott sat down, folded his arms and stared about the room looking like he was waiting for someone. The Detective pressed a recording button as the Professor entered.

“Hello again, Mr Westcott.”

“Professor Westcott, if you don’t mind,” replied the man, still not looking at them.

“Quite so. Just to remind you that you remain under caution. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence. I understand you continue to waive your right to legal representation. This interview is being recorded and present are DI Sophi Balinska and Sergeant Samuel Webster. Professor, please also meet Mr Robert Dudek.”

The professor stared at Robert for the first time, running his eyes all over him until Robert started fidgeting in his seat.

“Who’s this then, DI Balinska. Another one of your graduate trainees. Straight out of some third-rate so-called University with a 2:2 in Business Studies?”

“He’s one of our consultants, Professor, as you requested. Helps us with puzzles, numbers, that sort of thing. He’s right up your street.”

“Is that so,” said Westcott, leaning forward in his seat and studying Robert even more closely. “Tell me laddy, how would you respond if I say 39953 and 40063?”

“40163 and 40277,” replied Robert instantly.

Westcott raised both eyebrows and sat back in his chair.

“Not bad,” he said.

Robert looked across to the Detective, who sat with her mouth agape, a pen posed at her pad. 

“They’re just sequential prime numbers,” he explained.

“OK. So your little friend has something of a memory,” continued Westcott. “How about this. What’s special about the year 2584?”

Robert delved into his vortex of numbers, which swirled inside his head, each flashing colours assigning that number to one or more particular sets. Lines stretched across the numbers, linking those with the same colour.”

“It’s the next year which will be a Fibonacci number, Professor.”

“Fibo…Fibo…whatski, Robert?” asked Sophi.

“A list of numbers which are the sum of two preceding numbers, starting with zero and one. 0 + 1 = 1, 1 + 1 = 2, 1 + 2 = 3 and so on.”

While the Detective nodded as though she understood, Professor Westcott pursed his lips, which Robert felt must mean something. 

“So, Professor,” said Sophi, “now that we’ve had a little fun with numbers, perhaps you would kindly account for your movements in the early hours of Saturday morning?”

Westcott sat back in his chair and looked at Robert without blinking. Then he turned to the Detective.

“So, you come here with your little performing monkey, your pet robot, and expect me to answer all your questions? Come, come, DI Balinska, you can do better than that.”

Sophi, put down her pad, stood up and began wandering around the room, her eyes fixed on the Professor. Robert suspected that Sophi was trying to make him feel uneasy. It certainly made Robert uneasy, so he began counting Sophi’s steps. He reached twelve before Sophi spoke again.

“What’s the matter, Prof? Cat’s got your tongue now you’ve met someone as smart as you?” The Professor made a dismissive sound and re-folded his arms, staring at a wall. Sophi reached seventeen steps in her circuit then continued. “Is this petulance I see? Don’t fret, Professor, you were always destined to meet someone brainier than you one day. Happens to the best of us.”

The Professor uncrossed his arms and rubbed his hands up and down his thighs, then folded his arms again before bringing both hands down hard on the table. 

“Enough with your cod psychoanalysis, DI Balinska. I’m not obliged to say anything, as you well know, but you’re obviously not going to leave me in peace. So, I’ll give you something to keep you amused.”

The Detective was behind the Professor’s back at this point and Robert noticed her smile to herself.

“Fetch your grubby pad, Detective, and take down these numbers. I’ll say them only once so concentrate.”

Sophi walked slowly back to her chair and picked up the pad and pen. The Professor then proceeded to give out a list of large numbers, which Sophi wrote down. Robert did not need to write anything down. The sets of numbers, eighteen in all, formed a circle in his mind which began to rotate as the Professor finished. 

“That’s it. I’m done with your questions, Detective. I believe you need to release me at six o’clock, after which you will hear from my lawyers if you bother me again. Of course, your toy robot may be able to make some sense of what I have just said, if he can get his chrome-plated head around them, but I very much doubt it.”

 Sophi announced that the interview was terminated, stopped the recording and signalled for Sam to lead the Professor away. As he stood, Westcott looked at Robert with half a smile, then left, leaving Robert and Sophi alone. 

“He wants to be caught, I swear it. What do you make of these numbers, Bobby? He’s mentioned some of them before but we’ve never had, what, eighteen of them, is it? What can you see?” Sophi held up her pad so that Robert could read them.

“It’s OK, Sophi, I have the numbers in my head. Give me a moment.”

Robert began arranging the eighteen numbers into different sets: primes, Fibonacci numbers, numbers which have natural square roots, cube roots. In his mind, the numbers were coloured according to the particular set to show any patterns. Each had its own shape. The figures swirled about in a merry-go-round, shifting colours constantly. Numbers were doubled and halved. Added together and subtracted. Inserted into well-known mathematical formulae. 

“Bobby?”

Robert looked over to the Detective who was standing by the door.

“You’ve been at this for twenty minutes. Let’s take a break. I’ll buy you a hot chocolate.”

Robert had lost track of time, which was rare for him. He followed Sophi out and they took a lift to the third floor, where there was a coffee machine and thirteen comfortable chairs. They sat with their drinks and Sophi stretched her legs.

“I don’t get it. Westcott wants to be found out but he’s set a puzzle which even you can’t solve. It makes no sense.”

“I agree, Sophi. These numbers have no obvious connection. Perhaps if I think about them a little longer.”

“Time is what Aya Samir doesn’t have, Bobby. I wonder if we’re missing something.” The Detective looked back in her notes. “What did Westcott say as he gave us those numbers. Was there any clue?”

“Well, he called me a toy robot, which was not very nice. You don’t think I’m a robot, do you Sophi?”

The Detective produced one of her nice smiles again.

“Do robots like hot chocolate, Bobby? I don’t think so. You’re no robot. Ignore him.”

Robert liked that answer. 

“He also said I had a chrome-plated head.”

“That’s just another of his robot digs. Don’t let him get to you.”

Robert took another sip of his hot chocolate.

“No, I won’t, Sophi. It is an unusual choice of words though, don’t you think? Why chrome?” He supped again, then put down his cup quickly. 

“Bobby, don’t worry about it. I said, Westcott was only trying to wind you up.”

“No, it’s not that. Chrome. That’s the clue. Chrome is used to describe an electroplated layer of chromium over another metal. Chromium itself is a chemical element. I’ve studied them and they all have numbers. Chromium has an atomic number of twenty-four. Ah, that’s interesting.”  

“What is, Bobby? Do I have to add twenty-four to each of the numbers?”

In his mind, the brown number twenty-four was combining with each of the Westcott numbers in different ways, creating new number sets. With one calculation, the numbers were all coming out the same colour.  

“Not add, no. You see, there’s something quirky about prime numbers. If you multiply a prime number by itself and subtract one, the answer will always be divisible by twenty-four.”

The Detective had begun writing that down and then stopped, looked up at Robert and ran a hand through her hair.

“You’ll have to run that past me again, Bobby.”

“Look, I’ll show you. The first number Westcott gave us was 187, correct?”

“Right.”

“OK, Sophi, multiply 187 by 24 and you arrive at 4,488. “

“Easy enough.”

“Then you take 4,488 and add one. Your answer is the square of the prime number, 67. Do that with each of the Westcott numbers and they all come out as squares of prime numbers. We end up with a list of prime numbers.”

 “But how does that help us, Bobby?”

“Because…. because…. oh, that’s clever.”

In his mind, Robert had arranged the selected prime numbers into a list and compared the list to the set of all prime numbers. 

“I see what he has done, Sophi. If you look at that first number, 67, it is 19^th prime number.”

“Right. So what does that tell us?”

“Well, the 19^th letter of the alphabet is the letter S. It turns out if you do the same with all the numbers, they produce eighteen letters.”

The Detective began tapping her calculator quickly but Robert noticed that she kept making errors and having to restart the process.

“I have worked them all out already, Sophi, if you want to write these letters down?”

The Detective threw her calculator onto the next seat and looked up at Robert with her pen poised.

“So, if you apply the same calculation, to each of the prime numbers, it comes out as S, P, H, I, N, X, W, H, E, E, L, S, F, R, I, G, H, T.”

The Detective made to pick up her mobile phone but then put it down again.

“Sphinx wheels fright? What the hell does that mean? I was hoping for an address. Bobby, are you sure you haven’t made a mistake?

“I’m sure, Sophi. That’s what the numbers mean.”

The Detective muttered the words over and over.

“Fright I get. Westcott frightens me and I’m licenced to carry firearms. But what’s a sphinx wheel? You ever come across that?”

“I can’t say I have, Sophi. But it must mean something. The chances of random letters accidentally producing three distinct words are…let me see…”

“That’s OK, Bobby, no need to work it out.” The Detective picked up her phone again and searched the words for any hidden meanings. Robert let his mind drift, allowing the words to float freely, looking for links, sets of colours which each of the words would fit.

In the meantime, the Detective was pressing keys on her phone faster and faster, until she slammed it on the table.

“Christ, we’re wasting time here. I don’t understand why Westcott would give us that clue to the numbers with his chromium remark, only to lead us to three random words which have no meaning.” The Detective ran both hands through her hair and leaned back in her seat. “Someone should invent an app for translating psychopath into English.”

Robert suspected that the Detective did not really want someone to invent such an app, but he understood her frustration. Robert continued running the words through his mind but was interrupted again by the Detective.

“Wait a minute. Someone has invented an app!” she exclaimed, once more picking up his phone, which Robert was surprised to see was still working. She stabbed the screen a few times then held it up to show Robert. “About ten years ago, these guys invented a mapping system which divided the UK – well, the whole world I think – into three metre grids. It’s now standard issue for the police and fire services since it provides a much tighter location than normal GPS.”

“But it must use numbers, Sophi. How does that help us?”

“That’s the thing my hot chocolate-loving friend. It doesn’t use numbers. Each grid is identified by three words. Words like sphinx, wheels and fright. And look what happens when I feed in those three words.”

Robert looked at the map. It showed a location, one quite nearby.

“That is out in the woods just north of here, not a million miles away from the house of our dear Professor.” The Detective looked at the map again. “In fact, it’s pinpointed some abandoned buildings by the looks of it. I need to get this to the boys in blue.”

The Detective stood and walked briskly to the door before pausing and coming straight back. She leaned over, threw her arms round Robert’s neck and hugged him for a few seconds. Robert did not like being hugged. He did not like being touched at all really. But he made no objection as it seemed to be important for the Detective.

“Well done, Bobby. Well done.”

DI Balinska then rushed out of the room talking on her phone.

By the end of the afternoon, Robert was on his way home, careful to avoid the cracks along the pavement. The Detective had allowed Robert to witness her bringing formal charges against Professor Daniel Westcott for the kidnapping of Aya Samir, who had been found shaken but in good health tied up in the basement of a derelict cottage. The grounds around the building were being examined and the Detective said that there were signs of human remains already being unearthed.

To Robert, the Professor looked almost happy to have been caught, although it was never easy for Robert to interpret what people were thinking. As he was led away, the Professor looked across to Robert, nodded his head once and said bravo. Robert hoped this meant that the Professor no longer considered him to be a toy robot.

The number twenty-four had proved to be most helpful and Robert was forced to conclude that maybe brown things are not that bad after all. As an experiment, he slowly placed one foot on the crack between the paving slabs, but he did not like it. Perhaps it would take him a while to become used to it. He decided to try counting them and treading on the gaps after each slab which was a prime number. That kept him occupied all the way home.

*

Richard Garcka is retired and has been writing for six or seven years across various genres, but with a tendency toward uplifting themes in these difficult times. His short stories have been published by AudioArcadia, Arts Quarter Books, Michael Terrance Publishing, Cranked Anvil, Bandit Fiction and Spellbinder.