“You look hot. ‘ere, ‘ave some water,” he said, passing her a ceramic jug.
“Thanks,” she said, and took a swig.
“What was it?” the driver asked. “An ‘unting accident? I ‘eard it was a gunshot.”
“I’m not sure,” Ruth said. “I don’t think it was an accident, though.”
“Really?” the stoker asked. “A murder, then? Go on, give us some details.”
Ruth looked again at the distant haze that marked the city. It was definitely too far to walk.
“Well,” she began, and gave a highly expedited summary. She focused more on the blood and flies than on the bullet and made no mention of the money. It seemed to keep the two men entertained, at least until the orderlies had loaded the stretcher, and it was time for the train to leave. A whoosh of steam, a shriek from the whistle, a jolt, and the train shunted backwards towards Twynham.
“Four minutes, twenty seconds,” the stoker said, his voice rising to carry over the sound of pistons and steam.
“Until what?” Ruth called back.
“Until we ‘it the three-fifteen coming the other way,” the driver yelled, as the train picked up speed, reversing along the tracks.
He didn’t seem worried, so Ruth followed his example, and craned her head around the side of the train. There was a tap on her arm.
“You better hold onto your hat,” the stoker said. “This is going to get fast.”
And it did. Ruth let the wind whip through her hair as the train kept accelerating. As they hurtled back towards the junction, she couldn’t imagine even that wrecked plane ever moving at such a speed.
By the time the train pulled into a siding at Twynham Central, Ruth’s face and uniform were covered in soot, but her earlier gloom was gone.
“The coroner has the body, sir,” she said when she returned to the cabin in the yard behind Police House. The clock on the wall said it was four o’clock. She was surprised it wasn’t far later.
Mitchell raised his head from the map he’d been peering at and looked at the clock. “It’s unlikely they’ll start the autopsy before tomorrow morning, which means we won’t get the bullet until the evening.” He glanced over at her, and his lips curled in an attempt not to smile. “That’s an interesting look for you. Do you have a mirror?”
“No, sir,” she said, looking around the cabin in the hope of seeing one.
“If you’re going to ride in the cab of a steam train, you need a mirror.” He returned his gaze to the map.
Not sure what she should do, Ruth dragged the crime-kit back to where it had been at the beginning of the day.
“Should I take these to the evidence room?” she asked, picking up the evidence bags containing the victim’s meagre possessions.
“No, leave them with me for now,” Mitchell replied.
“And the tweezers? Shouldn’t they be washed?”
“I’ll deal with that.”
“Oh. Right. Um… were there any robberies of large sums of money last night?”
“Hmm? No. Not that have been reported. Or there weren’t an hour ago. You might as well go home. There’ll be more than enough work tomorrow.”
“Thank you, sir,” Ruth said. Her eyes caught sight of the desk, and the pile of statements she’d been wading through that morning. “I, um, I’ll finish these first.”
“The shift’s over, cadet, be grateful for it.”
“What I don’t do today,” she said, “I’ll have to do tomorrow.”
“Ah, the young,” Mitchell said. “When you get a bit older you’ll learn that what you put off today is someone else’s problem when you retire. And I can’t do that, even if it’s only for the night, until I’ve locked up. Go home, and then I can do the same.”
“Good night sir,” she said, and headed out the door.
She collected her bicycle from the rack on the other side of the stables and began the long ride home. The trains didn’t run to where Ruth lived. The Acre wasn’t a slum, not quite, and it was far larger than an acre. Situated on the site of an old refugee camp, it was next door to the newer immigration centre. Other than the name, Ruth couldn’t see any difference between the two. Nothing but a wide road separated the two old-world housing developments once occupied by retirees seeking the warmer weather of southern England. Nor was there much difference between the refugees with whom Ruth had shared Maggie’s classroom and the immigrants who filled it now. Some came from Ireland, but most had found a way of making the perilous crossing from continental Europe.
The Acre and the new centre next to it were very different from the camp in which Maggie had rescued Ruth. That was a place of tents, scant rations, and growing demand as every day brought a flood of new refugees through the Channel Tunnel. As Ruth understood it, after the great die-off, small groups had banded together throughout Europe. They’d lived off old-world stores of food as much as from farming. When ships began surveying the European coast, they’d made landfall to collect water. News of Britain’s recovery began to spread by word of mouth. After successive waves of disease cut through the barely coping communities, the survivors headed west. They took disease with them. SARS, Maggie had said it was called. Antibiotics had stopped it spreading throughout Britain. They’d been made in the laboratories built during the nearly catastrophic meningitis outbreak a few years before. But there hadn’t been enough doses, or there had been too many refugees in the camps around the Channel Tunnel’s entrance, or the medicine hadn’t been administered in time. Or perhaps it was all three. Ruth’s family had died, but she’d survived.
After that, the flood of refugees turned to a trickle, and not all made it as far as a camp. Increasingly, fishing vessels or the growing Navy picked up those who came by boat. Those refugees often found work, and a home, with them. As more farmland was reclaimed, there was employment in Kent for those who made the more treacherous land crossing through the pitch-black nightmare of the Channel Tunnel. Without an employer as a sponsor, no ration book was issued, no healthcare was provided, and no schooling was found for the children. Those refugees were relocated to The Acre. As the numbers had dropped, The Acre had become too big a site, and so the camp had been closed. The refugees were moved to a resettlement centre on the other side of the wide road. Maggie still taught, but she was paid based on how many pupils passed the pro-forma exams. As they often moved on after only a few months, her salary had shrunk.
The Acre, and all the buildings that stood on it, were now the property of Mr Foster. Officially – and it had been very official – the government gave Foster the land in exchange for a similar sized plot the man had owned before The Blackout, and on which the main railway depot had been built. From the moment the first judge had been sworn in, Foster had fought a protracted legal battle to have that land returned to him. Ruth didn’t know if he’d been a bitter man in the old world. After fifteen years of legal wrangling, and with the prize of a few dozen houses at the wrong end of the metropolis, Foster was certainly bitter now. The newspaper coverage hadn’t helped. During those early years there had been little news that wasn’t full of gloom and despair. Updates on Foster’s legal battle had become a regular fixture, prompting letters and opinions from anyone who could find pencil or pen.
The Acre was too far inland to be home to any fishers. It was too far from the factories for the salaried commuters, and it was far too far from the electrical grid to appeal to those with higher incomes. It was a place for the poor until they could afford something better. The new rents were low, but as high as Mr Foster was allowed to charge. As such they were more than most tenants could afford to pay. Especially Maggie and Ruth.
As she passed the new watermill that marked the boundary of the old town of Christchurch, exhaustion overtook Ruth, as did many other workers cycling to the shops before the evening rush. Soon the houses she passed were as often partially dismantled shells as they were occupied. The roads emptied, and she was alone except for an occasional rusting car deemed worthless e
ven as scrap.
The sun was low on the horizon when she finally caught sight of their home. It was a rambling double-fronted semi that would have been completely detached if it wasn’t for the joists and props holding up the house next door. Maggie had put those up herself and used the ground floor as the schoolhouse.
The wooden gate squeaked as Ruth pushed it open and wheeled her bike into the garden. Maggie paused from digging over the potato patch at the front of the house.
“Evening,” Ruth said.
“What on Earth happened to you?” Maggie asked.
“It’s from a train,” Ruth said. “I rode in the engine.”
“I could guess where the soot came from. I meant your jacket. Is that blood?”
Ruth glanced down. She’d not noticed before, but there was a stain around her sleeve and another across the waist.
“It’s not mine,” she said.
“Well, whose is it?” Maggie asked.
“I don’t know his name. Let me change, and then I’ll tell you all about it.”
“That’s about it,” Ruth said, a brief wash, a change of clothes, and half an hour of conversation later. “Serious Crimes doesn’t seem to have any real responsibilities, and I’m stuck there for the next three months. Probably longer.”
“Well, you have to be somewhere, and that’s the best I can do,” Maggie said, hanging the uniform jacket up to dry. “A murder on your first day, that’s something. Though I don’t know whether it’s worth celebrating or not.”
“Except all I did was carry a trolley and then sit by the body until the coroner turned up.”
The kettle began to whistle. “And what were you expecting?” Maggie asked, as she poured a splash of hot water into the teapot. “Chasing smugglers across the roof tops? Foiling conspiracies committed by criminal masterminds? You’ve read too much Conan Doyle and not enough history. Or would you rather have spent the day being shot at?”
Ruth threw a glance at the locked pine box in the corner of the room. Her revolver was now inside. Ruth had the key, but Maggie had made it clear she wasn’t happy about the gun being inside the house.
“I suppose not,” Ruth said. “It’s…” She trailed off.
“I know, dear,” Maggie said, throwing out the water from the pot. “You wanted to be somewhere else, but how would it be different from here? If you were in Shetland or some market town in Kent, you’d have spent the day doing paperwork or patrolling an empty street. They may have been streets you’d never seen before, but you’d have soon realised that concrete sidewalks look the same the world over.” She opened the tin of powdered tea, added two heaped spoonfuls to the pot, and poured in the boiling water.
“Maybe,” Ruth said. She was starting to think that Maggie was right, not just about her day, but about her joining the police, and that was a depressing thought in itself. She reached for the pot.
“No, dear. You have to let it brew.”
Ruth shook her head. The label on the tin might read ‘Satz! Assam’ but it was a caffeinated substitute that no one who remembered the original thought tasted like real tea. Like the sweetener, pharmaceuticals, ersatz coffee, and so much else, it came from the chemical works on the River Avon. Ruth had never had real tea and didn’t understand Maggie’s need for the ritual. She even insisted on buying the ‘black’, unsweetened variety despite the tins with powdered milk and sweetener being the same price. Milk was available on points, but sugar was rationed, though today the bowl was nearly a quarter full.
“It sounds like it’s a unit of troublemakers,” Maggie said. “Put there to keep them out of harm’s way.”
“Yes, and the sergeant said I should ask myself why I’ve been posted there.”
“A very good question,” Maggie said, adding a splash of milk to the cups. “Have you come up with an answer?”
“No,” Ruth admitted. “Unless they guessed that I lied about my age.”
“If they cared about that, they’d have thrown you out,” Maggie said. “No, the only reason I can think of is that you’ve been sent there to spy on them. Certainly, I imagine that’s what your sergeant and that detective constable must think.”
“But I’m not a spy,” Ruth said.
“Not yet. But give it a few days and I expect someone will call you into their office and ask you to keep them informed. In exchange you’ll probably be guaranteed graduating to constable in three months and passing your probation in a year.”
“That doesn’t seem too bad,” Ruth said.
“It’s a double-edged sword,” Maggie said, finally pouring the tea. “If you inform on them, your colleagues won’t trust you, and you need their trust. You were at a murder scene today, who’s to say when your life might be in their hands? But if you don’t obey an order from your superior, you’ll be sacked. Or worse. This is the police after all. It’s probably a crime.”
“Then what do I do?”
“Be careful. Be cautious,” Maggie said. “And remember you can always quit. Winter is on its way and summer always follows. You can apply for an apprenticeship.”
“Maybe,” Ruth said, not wanting to have the oft-repeated discussion that inevitably turned into an argument.
“Anyway,” Maggie said, as if she’d had the same thought. “For now, just do your job and keep your head down. Let’s forget about it. I’ve got something for you. I wanted to give it to you this morning, but there wasn’t time.” She walked over to the battered dresser and took out a small parcel. “Happy birthday, dear.”
Ruth took the parcel and tugged on the bow holding the red velvet cloth in place. It was the same piece of material that had wrapped all of her presents for as long as she could remember. Inside was a small box, and inside that…
“A watch? Thank you.”
“Every police officer needs one,” Maggie said.
Ruth stood, and hugged her adoptive mother, as much for the words as for the gift. They were the first sign that, though she might not approve of Ruth’s choice of career, nor how she’d attained it, she did accept it.
“There’s a spring inside that will wind the watch as your wrist moves,” Maggie said. “It’s not as accurate as the other kind, but it’s accurate enough. Now sit down, and I’ll get your dinner. I made you a cake for dessert.”
“A cake?”
“Of course, it wouldn’t be much of a birthday without a cake. But light the candle, it’s getting dark.”
Ruth struck a match and lit the candle on the table, and another by the window. There was no electricity in The Acre, though they now had mains water via a tap in the front garden. When they’d chosen the site for the radio antenna, just a few miles to the southwest, there had been rumours that they would electrify the entire stretch of coast. It hadn’t happened yet. Even if it did, Ruth knew they wouldn’t be able to afford it for their home.
“Where did you get the ingredients for the cake?” Ruth asked.
“The eggs are our own,” Maggie said, “but I’ve been saving up the coupons for the sugar and fat.”
“For how long?”
“Oh, throughout the year,” Maggie said, taking a large dish out of the oven.
“But they’re only valid for a month,” Ruth said.
“I’ve been trading the ones we don’t need. With you getting your lunch at the academy, there’s been a few to spare.”
“Trading with whom? And for what?” Ruth asked.
“Ah, and isn’t that the nosiness of a true police officer. Now, eat your dinner before it gets cold.”
The meal was potatoes and vegetables from their own garden, seasoned with mustard and herbs, and with no trace of meat. Even with the coupons and price controls that was too expensive to be anything but a rare luxury. Ruth didn’t mind. The meal was filling and had the comfort of familiarity that came from being what she’d eaten most evenings for as long as she could remember.
They were about to cut the cake when there was a knock on the door. It opened as Maggie was still halfway
to her feet. Mr Foster, their new landlord, came in.
“Sorry to trouble you, and at dinnertime, too. I do apologise,” he said, his voice dripping with insincerity. “I saw the candles and thought I’d pop in on my way home.”
“You can’t barge in here,” Ruth said.
“Oh, I think I can,” Foster said. “You owe me for the water rates.”
“It’s not due for another two weeks,” Maggie said.
“No, in two weeks it’ll be overdue,” Foster said. “And then I’ll have no choice but to evict you. I wouldn’t want that, which is why I thought I’d come and remind you, in case you forgot. There’s a lot of forgetfulness about at the moment. People leaving candles burning when they’ve gone to bed, that sort of thing. A lot of fires get started that way.”
“That’s a threat,” Ruth said. “And those are illegal.”
“Oh, no, it’s not a threat,” Foster said. “Just an observation. You see, I— here, whose is that?” He pointed at the uniform jacket hanging in the corner.
“It belongs to a friend of ours,” Maggie said. “He got into a fight. I was cleaning it for him. You can still make out the bloodstain. Hard to get those out, isn’t it, Mr Foster?”
“Huh,” Foster grunted. He looked around the kitchen again, this time taking in the two sets of dinner plates and the lack of evidence that anyone else was in the house. “Two weeks,” he said. “Not a day longer.”
He turned, stamping his muddy boots on the step as he left.
“I should put that uniform back on,” Ruth said.
“Oh yes, and what would you do then?” Maggie asked, as she pushed the door closed.
“I’d arrest him,” Ruth said.
“What for? He made insinuations, but were there any threats you could take to a judge? The government gave him this land, he paid for the water to be put in, and we have to pay him for it.”
“But it’s not right,” Ruth said. “We’ve been living here for years.”
“It is right, though it might not be fair, but life isn’t fair, Ruth, I’ve told you that often enough.”
Strike a Match (Book 1): Serious Crimes Page 6
