One of Us Is Dead

25 Sunday 2 October 2022

Paul Anthony had a lot on his mind. Three new orders had come through from Shannon for 3D printed handguns, with Bitcoin deposits received, and he thought he might go to his office this afternoon to start work on them.

But far bigger and more exciting than these was an ongoing contract he had been offered. A wealthy lady wanted her husband to meet with a fatal accident. Paul had an idea how to do this and, throwing modesty to the wind, he thought it was just brilliant.

No — more than brilliant; it was genius!

But first, Professor Llewellyn.

He opened his fridge door and admired the three cans of Diet Coke on the top shelf. Perfect, sealed, distinctive red and silver cans, indistinguishable from the ones on sale in any of a trillion shops, stalls, cafes, restaurants and bars around the globe.

No one could have told the difference, simply because there was no difference. He’d bought the empty, printed Diet Coke blanks through a counterfeiting source on the dark web, and a portable canning machine from trusty Amazon. He’d marked a number on the top of each of these three with a black felt tip: 4, 6, 8. It was the number of hours they had been in the fridge.

The process had been simpler than he’d imagined. He just poured in Diet Coke from other cans he’d purchased in a supermarket, leaving a gap of a couple of inches to the top. Then he had enmeshed each wasp in a cocoon of spun sugar from the candyfloss machine, placed them at the top and sealed each can with the machine.

He removed the three cans, put them down on the kitchen work surface, and placed a clear glass tumbler beside them. Then he listened to each can in turn with a piece of kit from another of the packages that had arrived in the past few days — a stethoscope. He began with the one marked 8.

Silence.

Then he listened to the one marked 6. There was a very, very faint scratching sound. Something was alive inside it. He felt a thrum of excitement. And it was the same with number 4. Yes!

Carefully, holding a cloth in his left hand above the can marked 8, he popped the tab with his right. There was a hiss, just like normal. He peered in but could only see dark liquid, no spun sugar. He upended the can, emptied the contents into the tumbler and saw a very dead-looking wasp float to the surface.

He removed the wasp with a spoon and laid it in a saucer, then peered at it through a magnifying glass for any signs of life, however small. He could see none. He emptied the tumbler into the sink, then repeated the process, opening can number 6. And this was much more satisfying. A plump, very drowsy wasp was struggling around on the surface. All traces of the spun sugar gone, as in the previous can.

‘Hello, my beauty — been gorging, have you?’ he said, beaming. ‘All your Christmases come at once?’

Next he opened the can marked 4. As he tipped out the contents, he could see a few strands of the pink candyfloss, but not enough for anyone to notice, and a much more active, angry wasp. It was struggling. Fighting to lift off from the Coke, fighting like a tiger.

Professor Bill Llewellyn normally got to his office around 8.30 a.m. From the reconnaissance he’d carried out, there were no security guard patrols, and no one around in the small hours. So it wouldn’t make any difference whether he visited Llewellyn at 2.30 a.m. or 4.30 a.m.

He decided to repeat the experiment again, to be sure. He had plenty of time and, judging by the contents of the four jars, two containing honey and two jam, he had no shortage of volunteers.

One of them was destined to die a hero.

Well, in his eyes, anyway.