Strike a Match (Book 1): Serious Crimes

by Tayell, Frank

  Ruth nodded as she grabbed the dustpan and started sweeping up the mud the man had trailed into their home.

  “Where are we going to find the money?” she asked. “I won’t get paid until the first three months are up, and it’s not like we’ve ever had any to spare.”

  “Have you ever been starving? Have you ever not had a roof over your head? No. So don’t worry about the money. Now, leave that floor alone, I’ll deal with it later. Come and finish your cake, and you can tell me more about this sergeant. You say he’s from America?”

  “Originally, but his accent’s different from yours.”

  “It is? How old is he?”

  “Forty. Maybe older, maybe younger. You know how hard it is to tell,” Ruth said. She went on to talk about Mitchell, Riley, and the rest of her day in more detail than before. Hours passed, the cake was eaten, and the candle burned low.

  Chapter 3

  Counterfeit

  18th September

  Ruth’s sleep was plagued by visions of steam trains that morphed into monstrous flies circling the face of the dead victim. She woke frequently and was glad when the inky darkness outside her window faded to the soft pink of the new day.

  She raked the stove and went outside to fill the kettle. The tap in the garden was an improvement on the pump down by the old petrol station. Before that, they’d had to trek back and forth to the river. However, the convenience of the tap wasn’t worth the risk of losing their home. There were plenty of other houses, of course, though after twenty years of neglect most had little beyond roof and walls to offer. Many didn’t even have those. Then there was the school. If Mr Foster evicted them, would Maggie have to find somewhere else to teach the children from the immigration centre? Probably. Would the government provide it? Possibly, though not quickly. Perhaps someone in the Ministry of Education would help simply as a way of avoiding the paperwork that would come with organising a new school building. Thinking of paperwork reminded her of Sergeant Mitchell and the question of why she’d been assigned to his unit. By the time she’d eaten and dressed, she still hadn’t come up with an answer.

  As she wheeled her bicycle along the lane, shooting frequent glances at the dark bloodstain on her sleeve, she hoped she might bump into Mr Foster. She wanted him to see her in uniform, but Maggie was right, what would she do then? What could she do? A million malicious ideas sprang to mind, but they were tempered by the memory of the dead man and his lifeless eyes.

  According to her new watch, it was seven forty-five when she pushed her bike into the stand behind Police House. There were three-quarters of an hour before her shift officially began, but when she turned the corner of the stables, she saw Mitchell and Riley were already there. The detective constable stood in the doorway to the cabin, the sergeant at the bottom of the ramp, seemingly barring entry to two women. One wore the uniform of a captain in the SIS – the Secret Intelligence Service – the other was dressed in a distinctly civilian suit.

  “There are few crimes more serious,” Ruth heard Mitchell say as she got nearer. She slowed her pace.

  “And treason’s one of them,” the captain said. “It’s—”

  “Forgery isn’t treason,” Mitchell interrupted.

  “And this isn’t a few coupons or some fake ration books. This is counterfeiting,” the captain replied. Mitchell’s tone was angry, bordering on enraged. The captain’s voice was calm, with an edge that made it sound as if she was enjoying the confrontation.

  “There’s a threshold,” the civilian said. “Of a thousand pounds, and you recovered over ten times that.”

  “But the amount doesn’t matter,” the captain said. “Just the method that was used to create the currency.”

  Now that she was closer, Ruth saw that the woman wasn’t wearing a suit. The jacket had thin white piping along the seam that was absent on the calf-length skirt. They looked like old-world clothes, though ones that had hardly been worn. Ruth couldn’t see any tears or repairs, and that meant they’d cost a good deal of money. Not as much as having a new set of clothes made by hand, but far more than Ruth herself could afford. She looked at the captain, but found her eyes being drawn back to the civilian. Then she realised why. It was the shoes. Both were black, but the buckle on the left was half the size of the one on the right. Whoever she was, Ruth imagined she must have been woken early, and dressed hurriedly in the dark to come here. As to why… she turned her attention back to the conversation.

  “This is murder, Weaver. Murder!” Mitchell growled at the captain, his voice now dangerously low.

  “And there are bigger issues at stake, Mitchell,” Captain Weaver replied.

  “Nevertheless,” Mitchell replied. Ruth waited for him to go on. So did everyone else.

  “Fine,” Captain Weaver said, when it became apparent the sergeant had finished. “Then I’m pulling rank, sergeant. This is my case, and I want your notes and the evidence you collected. All of it. Now.”

  There was another long pause.

  “Riley?” Mitchell finally said.

  The constable went inside the cabin and came out a moment later with a thin file and half a dozen small evidence bags.

  “That’s everything?” Weaver asked as she took it from the constable.

  “Yes, captain,” Riley said.

  Weaver eyed her, and then Mitchell.

  “The law is the law, sergeant,” Captain Weaver said.

  “That has always been my point,” Mitchell replied. He turned on his heel and walked into the cabin.

  “Constable.” Weaver nodded to Riley, turned, and headed across the yard. “Cadet.”

  Ruth snapped to attention as the two women walked past. She kept her eyes fixed ahead until she could no longer hear the soft clicking of the civilian’s heels.

  “What was that about?” she asked Riley.

  “Not out there,” Mitchell’s voice came from inside.

  Riley gave a shrug that spoke volumes though not in a language Ruth understood.

  “Sir?” Ruth asked when she was inside.

  “As you might have gathered,” Mitchell said, pacing back and forth between the desks. “The money we found on the body was fake. Forged. Counterfeit. I took it to the Mint yesterday to find out when it might have been issued. They ran the serial numbers and discovered that they haven’t been issued yet.”

  “They’re certain?” Ruth asked.

  “That woman was. Her name’s Standage and she’s the director of quality assurance. Apparently that means she’s in charge of serial numbers for banknotes.” He walked over to the door and peered outside. “That,” he said, more quietly, “is what they’re telling us. How much truth is in it, I don’t know.” He sighed and turned away from the door. “Call it forgery or counterfeiting or even treason, I don’t care. Someone has been murdered. That is the serious crime. That is what we must solve because you can believe that Captain Weaver won’t.” He spat out the SIS officer’s rank with venomous distaste.

  “We’re still investigating?” Ruth asked.

  “Of course,” Mitchell replied, as if he was surprised the cadet had to ask. He opened a drawer and took out a folder identical to the one Riley had handed to Weaver. “Cadet, what do you know about money?”

  “Um… that there’s never enough of it?”

  “Quite. Do you know why we use paper money rather than metal?”

  “No sir.”

  “The problem arose during that first winter when it was too cold to go outside,” he said. “People huddled together for warmth, hoping the snows would melt, and dreading what the landscape would look like when it did. Those who could sew repaired clothes. Those who could weave a story told one. The doctors, nurses, and dentists had plenty of work, and the crudest of tools to do it. With little else to occupy their time, many were happy to labour for no reward except having some familiar task to fill their minds. Others weren’t, and barter began. The problem with barter is that it’s hard to tax. Without taxes the government can’t
pay police, and if the government don’t pay us, you better believe the criminals would. So we needed a currency. We couldn’t use gold or silver, as those could be found in any abandoned house, there for anyone strong enough to brave the weather to find it. Using batteries, candles, and other old-world goods could only ever be a temporary measure. We wanted a society that was building something new, not just looting the ruins of the old. Our first efforts were crude, but they had to be. We were limited by what we could physically make, and that was metal oblongs, two inches by five, each with an octagonal hole in the middle. You’ve seen them?”

  “Yes, sir. We have a couple at home,” Ruth said.

  “And I bet you’ve thought you could make a few yourself? A lot of people did. As many as there were who sat down to sew cloth or skin by firelight, there were those who found rasps and saws. The metal was everywhere. Cars. Trucks. Buses. They littered the streets. We made the designs more elaborate, but that only resulted in our forgers becoming more skilled. That currency didn’t last long. Scarcity is the key. Raw materials are not scarce in our world. Electricity is. Hence the printed, paper notes. You could forge one by hand, but there are far quicker ways of earning a living. To print a note, you need a computer for the design, a printer, paper, and ink. That suggests more than one person is involved, but we knew that since our victim was unlikely to have shot himself.”

  “Computers? That’s why the SIS is involved, isn’t it? Because of the risk the AIs will start up again?” Ruth asked.

  Mitchell blinked, looked at her, and then gave a long drawn out sigh. “That’s the trouble with your generation. You don’t understand what an artificial intelligence is. Yes, the fact that this was done with a computer gives the SIS jurisdiction regardless of any other facts. No, it doesn’t mean this has anything to do with AIs or The Blackout. The design isn’t so complicated that you’d need a mainframe. A basic graphics package would do, and you’d find one of those on half the computers in the country. Therein lies the dilemma. Though electricity is scarce, computers aren’t. Even after twenty years, I doubt it would take more than a day of searching to find one that hadn’t succumbed to damp and decay.”

  “I don’t understand. I thought you said it was harder to forge because they used computers,” Ruth said.

  “He means the electricity is harder to get hold of,” Riley said. “Would you need a lot of it?”

  “Yes,” Mitchell said. “After you factor in the printer - and we’re not talking about some deskjet or simple scanner-copier that—” He saw the expression on the two women’s faces. “It doesn’t matter. The answer is yes, you’d need a lot more than most people have access to. I’ve got a single light bulb in my place. Do you have electricity, cadet?”

  “No, sir. Not yet.”

  “Well, you can’t simply pull out a light bulb and plug in a computer. You’d need an adaptor and a transformer, and not an old-world one. And that’s before we’ve addressed the issue of paper and ink, both of which, as you heard, were an exact match.”

  “Where do we start?” Riley asked.

  “I have a meeting with Rebecca Cavendish. She sent me a note this morning saying that a bloody handprint had been found on a train. She didn’t say which train, which means she wants a favour before she’ll tell me.” He grabbed his coat. “Armed with the probability that either our victim or our killer is a counterfeiter, continue following the boots. Find who made them, and when you do, find out whether our man bought them with a twenty-pound note. How many did you manage yesterday?”

  “Four,” Riley said. “I’ve three more on the list for Twynham. After that we’ll have to try Wales or Scotland.”

  “And we will, if we have to,” Mitchell said. “Weaver cares about the money. I care about the murder, and I will not have a killer running free in my city.”

  Riley opened the drawer to her desk and took out the large evidence bag.

  “Are those are the victim’s boots?” Ruth asked.

  “They are,” Riley said. She watched Ruth, and Ruth knew why. The constable was waiting for her to make some comment about them not having been handed over to Captain Weaver.

  “Where exactly in Scotland?” Ruth asked. “Because I’ve always wanted to go.”

  Chapter 4

  Boots

  The roads were full of commuters, some on bikes and others on foot, all heaving their way to their various places of work. It was chaotic, and would have been cause for seeking refuge in a doorway if her uniform hadn’t saved Ruth from the worst of the jostling crowd.

  “Have you known Sergeant Mitchell long?” Ruth asked, in an attempt to make conversation.

  “Long enough,” Riley replied.

  Silence descended.

  “What about Captain Weaver?” Ruth asked. “Won’t we get into trouble for continuing the investigation?”

  “We won’t. We’re just following a line of enquiry given to us by our superior.”

  “But the sergeant will?” she asked.

  “There’s no trouble they can give Mister Mitchell that he can’t find himself,” Riley said. “But when this is over, we’ll either have found the killer and they won’t care, or we won’t and no one will ever know.”

  Ruth didn’t think it would be as simple as that, at least not for her. She tried a different tack.

  “How will the boots help us?”

  “Have you ever been to a tailor?” Riley asked.

  The answer was no, but Ruth said, “Of course.”

  “They took your name and address, and told you they’d keep your measurements on file, didn’t they?” Riley asked.

  “I suppose.”

  “It’s the same with boots. You can’t get a pair like these made in a day. The man would have had to give the bootmaker a name and an address.”

  “Which might be fake,” Ruth said.

  “Almost certainly,” Riley said. “But from the date they were made we’ll know when he first came into money. That might tell us something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Don’t know,” Riley said. “I went to four places yesterday. No luck. All made work boots and not much else.”

  Riley had an odd manner of speech, Ruth thought, using words as if they were as tightly rationed as meat.

  “Drake Avenue is next on my list,” Riley continued, waving a hand towards a side road on which the foot traffic was slightly thinner. “You grew up around here?”

  “A few miles away,” Ruth replied. She’d visited the market a few times, but it was a long way to come for stalls laden with the same food they grew in their own garden. It wasn’t until she’d joined the academy that she’d spent much time wandering the city.

  “You need to know the streets,” Riley said. “The shops. The people. Who belongs. Who doesn’t.”

  Drake Avenue didn’t deserve the name. It was less than a hundred feet long, barely five feet wide, and filled with trestle tables. They clearly belonged to the pub halfway along the road. It was called The Golden Hind according to the freshly painted sign swinging in the gentle breeze and was doing brisk business judging by the staff. One waiter was clearing tables after the breakfast rush while another was sweeping the street. From the look of it, the pub’s landlord was keeping the entire avenue clean. It was good for business, Ruth supposed, or perhaps it was a way of placating neighbours who would otherwise complain about late night noise.

  The Golden Hind was such a dominating presence that Ruth almost walked past the shoe shop without noticing it. Situated three whitewashed houses down from the pub, Ruth first took the thick coating of grime on the windows to be grey paint.

  “It looks closed,” Riley said as she knocked on the door. “Odd.”

  “Why is it odd?” Ruth asked.

  “They should be open for the passing trade as people go to work,” the constable said.

  Ruth peered through the nearly opaque window. “I can see shoes,” she said, “on shelves against the wall and on a table in the middle of the flo
or.”

  “Odder,” Riley said. “Why make them in advance?”

  “I think it’s old-world stock,” Ruth said. “And I can see a shadow. Someone’s coming.”

  “Detective’s Riley and Deering,” Riley said when the door opened. “And you are?”

  “Xavier Collins,” the young man replied. He was around five-eight and too young to pull off the clipped beard and moustache he’d attempted to grow.

  Riley looked down at the list in her hand and then back at the man.

  “No, you’re not. You’re not old enough,” the constable said.

  “You’re looking for my father?” the man half said, half asked.

  “I don’t know,” Riley said. “Does he own the shop?”

  “Yes,” Collins said with a sigh. “What’s this about?”

  “Does he make shoes?” Riley asked, pushing past the man to enter the shop.

  “We did do repairs,” Collins said, following her back into his store. “But we now specialise in premium old-world stock. Take these; they’re new in from Birmingham.” He picked up a lurid red and green pump from the centre table. “I’m selling them at five pounds a pair, but for our friends in blue, how about four pounds fifty?”

  “I can buy a pair of trainers in the National Store for fifty pence,” Ruth said. Her last pair had actually cost half that, but she didn’t want Riley to know. “So why would I pay ten times that for these?”

  “These aren’t just trainers,” Collins said with brittle enthusiasm. “Not only have they never been worn, but this brand wasn’t even available for sale. They’ve come from the exhibition centre in Birmingham. There was a skateboarding expo due to start the day after The Blackout, and these were going to be revealed to the world for the first time. They’ve spent the last twenty years in a hermetically sealed vault. I couldn’t believe it when I saw them. No moisture, no rodents, no insects got anywhere near them. Four pounds, and I won’t be making a profit on them at all.”

  “Birmingham?” Riley asked. “You have a scavenging licence?”