Last night’s argument had drained them both. Afterwards neither of them had felt good about it and so they’d drunk more than they should have. Nero’s throat had grown sore by the time they’d finished talking things through. He’d suggested the boy stay the night and Bruno had agreed with a simple shrug.
Asleep like this, the boy looks so young – too young to be mixed up in this whole thing. His closed eyelids flicker and Nero knows with certainty that he’s dreaming about being chased through those damned tunnels – a recurring nightmare.
Whatever their biological relationship – and they have to be related in some way – there’s no denying the bond between them can’t now be broken. In a world of outsiders they are the same kind – perhaps the only two left. For good or bad, their lives are inextricably bound up together. And to keep the boy safe he must go on the offensive.
Bruno’s stud is lying on the table by the couch. Nero picks it up. It’s a few minutes work to do what’s needed before he slips it into his pocket.
He goes back to Bruno and shakes his shoulder. He wakes with a start. Squinting against the light, he asks, ‘What time is it?’
‘Just before six.’ Nero takes a swig of coffee
‘In the morning?’
Nero chuckles. ‘Yes – A of the M.’
‘Sjitt!. Why would you wake me up at such a ridiculous hour?’
‘As my nonna used to say, Chi dorme non piglia pesci.’
‘You’re off fishing? What, in the dark?’
‘Not exactly – it’s just an expression.’ He puts his coffee down. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go to work and I’m sorry but I’m taking that stud of yours with me.’
‘No way!’ Bruno sits up. ‘It’s a state-of-the-art AVR, you can’t just take it.’ He looks around trying to locate where he might have left it.
‘I wouldn’t do this under normal circumstances but the thing is I need to analyse that image you recorded. Don’t worry – I won’t divulge where I got it.’
‘Can’t you just transfer it onto yours?’ Rubbing his eyes he says, ‘Okay I take your point but how am I supposed to manage without a fokking stud?’
‘There’s one over there on the counter next to the coffee you can smell. Not a fancy model like the AVR but it’s unregistered and totally safe to use. I’ve already transferred all your personal stuff onto it and set the alarm for 8:30 so you’ll make your first lecture.’
‘Hang on a minute – how did you break the security codes?’
‘How do you think?’
‘Okay but what the hell gives you the right to do all that without asking me first?’ Bruno swings his legs off the couch then scratches at his scalp still trying to wake himself up. ‘That’s my private stuff.’ You had no right to do that.
‘I knew you’d object and there isn’t time to explain.’ It’s necessary – I wouldn’t do it otherwise. ‘Listen, I’ve got to go. Help yourself to breakfast when you’re ready.’
Though he shuts the door on the boy’s further protests, he still hears them in his head.
For a brief moment the expressway takes him high up over the glowing city. He doubts many people are at work inside the CBD’s massed high-rises at this hour and yet the buildings are lit up like the holidays. If not for the city’s abundant, free energy they wouldn’t be as profligate with all that power. He tries to identify the point where the stacked-up buildings begin to give way to the shabbier low-rises so typical of the Orange Zone. An easier guide is the snowline – the point where the ground becomes colder.
Looking away from all the light pollution, if he leans right into the window he can just make out a blanket of stars in the sky above the mountain range – constellations he’s seen many times but still can’t put names to. It’s good to think on all that calm, timeless beauty; the same unaltered sky so many previous generations have lived beneath. What would the Vikings who first settled this land make of the way people live now? They’d made the perilous journey over here to escape a tyrannical king, fuelled by a desire for self-determination. The first ever parliament-style gathering was held not too far away.
A couple of uniformed medics get on at the next stop and begin to chat about the day ahead bemoaning the inconvenience of their shift pattern. He tries to switch off their disgruntled voices.
As a policeman, his first duty is to uphold the laws passed by the people’s democratically elected representatives. Some laws could be suspended by emergency decree but others were more stubborn. After Leifsson’s murder, Hagalín had assumed power but the law insists his term can only run for a fixed period. That time is fast running out. The media are speculating that Liljan, Leifsson’s widow, is about to throw her hat into that particular ring. If the rumours are true, she’s a very brave woman.
He’s reached his stop. Stepping outside the warmth of the pod, Nero pulls his coat together and stuffs his hands deeper into his pockets. Head down against the bitterness of the wind, he sets off at pace. The wet pavement mirrors the shining buildings on either side. It’s odd to experience walkways so empty of other people.
Passing an overflowing bin, he glimpses a long, worm-like tale protruding. At his approach, it disappears. Had to be a brown rat – one of millions descended from the original stowaways.
Gianni’s place is in darkness, just the shadowy shapes of chairs upended onto the tables. The noise of an approaching street cleaner is amplified by every hard surface.
Nero can see the atrium of DSD up ahead. He never ceases to admire the elegant way all those interlocking glass panels fit together – the simplicity of those octagonal cells. Instead of walking into the Department of Surveillance and Detection you could be entering an art gallery, though the ring of heavy bollards set back from the entrance has compromised the openness of the approach.
Four uniformed officers are on duty inside the lobby – double the normal shift. Their only function is to oversee the security procedures. The retinal scan does nothing for his hangover. ‘Good morning, sir,’ one security guy says nodding him through the final check. Must be new. The man’s colleague fails to stifle a yawn.
Once he’s in his office, Nero scans the latest reported incident. As he feared, Port Officer Svensson’s brother has reported him missing. God dammit. Upset by his colleague’s death, he was last seen making his way home after a very drunken night out with friends.
The report’s accompanying schematic shows the position of the modest underground unit the two brothers share; it’s tucked in behind the eye-wateringly expensive real estate bordering the fjord. Svensson’s homeward journey would have taken him past a stretch of open water. Tide charts illustrate how anybody falling into the water along that stretch would have been washed out to sea. Currents were unpredictable. Marine Patrol officers have been asked to search the length of shoreline where his body would most likely have been washed up if it hadn’t been swept further out. So far they’ve drawn a blank.
The deaths of these two men in separate accidents within a few hours of each other could be dismissed as nothing more than a tragic coincidence. In Svensson’s case, there’s not even a body. Nero’s quite certain it’s not about to wash up on shore or he’d be tempted to go looking for it himself. There’s no evidence to prove foul play in either case, yet without a shadow of doubt the two men were murdered. Somebody is tying up loose ends. The question is – who?
Nero tries to pace the room but keeps coming up against its edges. Half an hour goes by before his desk monitor alerts him to the fact that Constable Jie Ning Chan has just entered the building.
Thirty-Six
When Chan looks up, Nero is standing there in the doorway. It’s quite a shock. She’s only just taken off her coat, so it’s not possible to look too preoccupied with her work.
‘Hi there,’ he says. ‘You went off so quickly the other morning; before we had time to chat or say anything really.’ He gives her the sort of smile that would have worked before.
She turns to the two whiteboards behi
nd her like they’re alibies. ‘I’ve got a lot to get through,’ she says, starting up the main monitor. ‘Lots of catching up to do; blanks to fill and all that.’ She lets her tone speak for itself. He doesn’t budge so she adds, ‘Was there something in particular, sir?’
His smile drops clean away. ‘I have no idea what’s going on here,’ he says, his pointing hand moving backwards and forwards to describe the gap between them.
She doesn’t say a thing – there are no words. Instead she meets his gaze head on. And then he shakes his head. ‘I’ve never been one for game playing,’ he says.
He makes to leave but hesitates. Hand clutching the doorjamb, he’s giving her another chance to contradict his reading of the situation. When she doesn’t, he lets go. ‘As you say, Constable, there are far more important matters for us both to deal with.’
After that she tries to concentrate on her work but can’t. Maxwell arrives looking flustered. Shedding layers of clothing, she seems to take up more than her fair share of the room. Today’s main complaint is about the wind; Chan can see it’s played havoc with her hair. Maxwell unties the band holding it back. Drawing the errant strands together again, she pulls it into place while at the same time recounting an argument she’s just had with her sister. The girl’s visibly upset, can’t seem to stop going over the minutiae of what was said and done on both sides; her poor hair duly suffers for it.
Plastering an attentive look on her face, Chan tries to zone out. With Maxwell so vocal, it’s not easy to give attention to the reports from the SOCOs who examined the factory. The words swim before her eyes.
Maxwell subsides into a chair. After a few minutes peace she stands up again. ‘It’s no good – I can’t concentrate. I’m going for a coffee – you want one?’
‘Ugh – not the stuff from the machine.’ Chan pulls a face.
‘If you like, I could brave the elements again and get us some from that place round the corner.’
Chan gives the girl her best smile. ‘In that case, I’d love one. Oh, and while you’re at it, could you get me one of those giant almond croissants?’ After fishing in her bag, she pulls out her spare credit log. ‘As you’re the one getting cold, it’s my treat. No arguments.’ Her raised hand blocks any further discussion.
Maxwell’s quick to concede. ‘Okay – fair enough.’ Shrugging on her coat, she says, ‘It’s still minus ten outside. Maja – the pregnant one from accounts – she told me they’ve got a word in Swedish for this sort of weather: Vargavinter which literally means wolf winter because it’s so damned cold the wolves all leave the forest to hunt near the towns. Quite a thought, eh? I just hope I don’t hear any howling out there.’
The girl still hasn’t gone. ‘You’re sure about that almond croissant?’ Maxwell pulls a face as she reaches for her scarf. ‘Those things have like a thousand calories or more. I mean, I know we’re cops but there’s no need to conform to the stereotype. They might be delicious but think of all that sugar, all the saturated fat and that. How about I buy you some fruit instead?’
‘Thanks for the health warning but I’d rather have the croissant. It’s going to be a long day,’ Chan says. ‘Need to keep the energy levels topped up.’
Once she’s finally left, Chan can concentrate on the paramedic’s report. She pores over each and every detail. Then she sits back and closes her eyes concentrating only on the darkness in front of her. Nothing.
She tries again. This time her vision turns dark red. She tries to conjure up those lost images. Letting her body relax, she wills her skin to remember the sensation of lying on that cold hard floor. Her ears only register the combined low hum coming from the room’s various monitors. Can she turn the sound into voices – voices into a missing conversation?
Nero was there – that’s one certainty. Lying flat out, there was a light dangling in her eyes. Can she hear his voice – speaking low at first and then that change of tone like earlier – when he began to get annoyed? She’s lying lost at their feet while they talk above her, over her, like she’s not there at all because she’s lying there dead with her windpipe torn out.
Thirty-Seven
A sense of righteous resentment propels Nero along the warren of corridors. The smell of fresh paint hits him as he enters the Surveillance wing. Despite DSD’s budgetary restrictions, the whole place has been spruced up and reorganised since his last visit. So much so he has to check each door in turn until he comes to the one marked: “Chief Inspector Le Ruste”. Below, to clear up any lingering doubt, they’ve added the words: “Head of Department”.
He knocks at the door before trying the handle. It won’t open. Rustler’s disembodied voice says, ‘You can come in now.’
It’s quite a step up from the man’s former office. In spite of their chequered history, the big man seems genuinely pleased to see him. Getting out of his chair with a struggle, he comes forward to clap Nero on the back numerous times. Guilt plays a part. He must have put on ten kilograms since Nero last saw him. ‘Been a while, Cavallo,’ he says. ‘How the fokk are you doing?’
‘Just fine, thanks.’ Nero hesitates before he shakes the man’s offered hand. A sensation like a mild electric shock runs up his arm and leaves his body tingling.
‘For Christ sake take a seat, man,’ Rustler says. He narrows his eyes. ‘It’s barely nine o’clock and, if you don’t mind me saying, you look like hell. You want some coffee or something?’
When Nero rolls his head, he opens a drawer and holds up a half empty spirit bottle. ‘Got something a little stronger here, if you’d prefer?’ The man’s thoughts are simple to read. As he had long suspected, with Rustler, what you see is more or less what you get and this is a non-too-subtle test.
‘Not at this hour,’ Nero says. ‘Thanks all the same.’
‘Do I detect a note of disapproval? If you ask me – and you haven’t but I’ll tell you anyway – there’s nothing wrong with a little libation now and again. A small stiffener can help get you through a difficult day.’ Pretending to be crestfallen, Rustler puts the bottle back and closes the drawer.
Le Ruste’s face becomes serious. ‘So Nero, my old friend, what brings you up from that crypt of yours? Laskaris getting on your tits? Have to say that jarhead would get on mine if – ’
‘I need some information,’ Nero says, heading him off.
‘And you couldn’t go through the usual channels because…?’
‘Let’s say it’s of a sensitive nature.’
Rustler’s whole face lights up. ‘All ears.’ He’s unable to resist rubbing his hands together.
Nero looks around the room. ‘Is it possible we can talk totally off the record?’
‘Are you kidding me?’ The man’s smile is a dental disaster. ‘Like it says on the door, I’m the head of fokking snooping – d’you think I’d let anyone return the favour?’
He leans back in his chair – it’s a snug fit and there’s a creak or two. ‘This room is my inner sanctum. It’s entirely soundproof and, let me assure you, no spoken word or images of any kind can be recorded in here.’
He wishes Rustler’s mind hadn’t just turned to his lover Evva and precisely what he likes to do with her over the desk they’re sitting at. It’s not a pleasant image. No wonder he appreciates his privacy.
‘I need your word this goes no further than the two of us,’ Nero says.
‘You got it.’
Trustworthy would be the wrong description for Rustler but the man is keen to make amends for his behaviour on the night they raided that bank – the night Lúter was killed.
Nero takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. ‘Okay, some information has reached me from an outside source. I figured you are the ears and eyes of this place – so if anyone’s able to help me, it’s you.’
He can tell how much this pleases Rustler. Leaning forward with some difficulty, the man says, ‘Go on.’
‘It concerns someone they call Viktor.’
Rustler pulls a pained face. ‘
Doesn’t exactly narrow the field.’
‘This guy’s very tall, thin and fair; almost certainly native born.’
‘You’re gonna to have to give me more than that.’ Rustler spreads both hands out on the desktop as if preparing to leap over it. Given the shape he’s in, it’s not a possibility.
Nero takes Bruno’s stud from his pocket and puts it on the table in front of them both. ‘There’s a single image of him on this but it’s from twenty years or so back. I know we have the tech to age the guy in question pretty accurately but I can’t access that application without leaving a signature. The image on here is a group photo; it wouldn’t hurt to age-up the whole team. You’ll be able to recognise some of the people on it but I won’t spoil the surprise.’
‘Okay.’ He picks up the stud. ‘AVR – nice bit of kit. Image should be clear enough.’ Rustler purses his lips. ‘So let me see.’ He weighs the stud in his hand like a prospector assessing its worth. ‘I should be able to run the process using an existing file as an umbrella.’ He swaps the stud from one closed fist to the other; does it several times before it ends up in the left one. ‘Ever watch one of those sleight of hand tricks, Cavallo?’
‘Sure, a few times.’
‘Those guys play on the fact that we process events with two different parts of the brain. The prefrontal cortex concentrates on the top down stuff – the task in hand.’ He brings his closed left hand up in front of Nero’s face. ‘But distractions, they’re processed by the sensory cortices. Trying to concentrate on both together is impossible and yet you’re blind to the fact that your attention is impaired.’
Nero plays along. ‘I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.’
Rustler gives a satisfied chuckle before opening his hand. He holds it up in the air to prove it was empty all along. ‘Once the process is complete,’ he says, ‘I’ll mark it as extinct and the whole thing will disappear like it never happened.’
He brings his other hand up to show Nero where the stud was all along.
Within Each Other's Shadow Page 19
