“I… er…” he stammered, his eyes flitting between the shoes and the door in search of an answer.
“A tax receipt?” Riley prompted.
Collins’s shoulders dropped a little. “Do I need one?” he asked.
“Tax is due on all old-world goods found in the wasteland and sold in the city,” Riley said. “The exception is a scavenger who sells ninety-percent of the haul to the National Store. That remaining ten-percent is tax free, and can be sold to shops such as yours, in which case a receipt is provided. How long has your father been sick?”
“Sick? How did you know?” Collins asked.
“Because you don’t know how to run a shop,” Riley replied.
“He was fine when I left. He had a stroke when I was away,” Collins said. His eyes flickered towards the door behind him.
“He’s upstairs?” Riley asked.
Collins nodded.
“Stay here,” she said, adding to Ruth, “Watch him.” The constable disappeared into the back of the shop.
Collins stared at the floor. Ruth looked around the shop. She picked up one shoe, and then the next.
“Three pounds fifty?” Collins suggested.
Ruth shook her head.
“The girl?” Riley asked when she came back into the shop.
“That’s my sister,” Collins said.
“It’s only the three of you?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Do you know anything about repairing shoes?”
“I can glue and sew, but—”
“Can you resole a shoe?” Riley asked.
“Yes.”
“And all this stock came from Birmingham?”
“Yes,” Collins sighed.
“Your father didn’t make boots?” she asked.
“No, he just did repairs.”
“Put this stock in the back, somewhere it can’t be seen,” Riley said. “Clean that window, put a sign out the front, and start doing repairs again. I won’t arrest you, not today, but I will come and check you aren’t obviously doing anything illegal. And get your sister back in school. Sitting by your father’s bedside won’t help his recovery.”
“You’re not… thank you. Thank you,” Collins stuttered. “Ah… can I offer you a pair each?”
“No. That would be bribery,” Riley said, and she left the shop. Ruth followed.
“Why didn’t you charge him?” Ruth asked.
“What would be the point? They used to say justice was blind. Sometimes police have to be blind, too, knowing when the punishment will do more harm than the crime. He clearly can’t afford the fine, so he’d get three months light labour. Who’d look after the father or sister while he was dismantling scrap? Maybe he’ll learn the lesson that what was valuable in the old world is worthless now. Maybe he won’t, but he owes us. That’s useful.”
“Why? Does a cobbler make a good informant?”
“No more than anyone else, but someone who made it all the way to Birmingham and back does. Contacts. That’s what you need in this job. Call them informants if you like, but it comes down to someone who’ll tell you something because they trust you more than they fear anyone else.”
Ruth weighed that up.
“Riley?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“What’s skateboarding?”
The penultimate shop on the list was in Green Harbour Drive, situated in a visibly more affluent part of the city. Small cafes were nestled between workshops. The clientele sitting at the tables outside wore clothes that fit and which weren’t dotted with patches and sewn repairs. They passed the Ministry for Exploration and Foreign Affairs and the far busier bakery next door.
“It’s that one,” Riley said, pointing at a small shop. It was nestled between a tailor’s boasting the latest tweeds from Scotland and a pharmacy advertising more herbal remedies than chemical ones. There was no sandwich board outside, but a discreet sign read, ‘Repairs done whilst you wait. Shoes & Boots made.’
“No mention of pricing,” Riley said. “That’s always a sign of expense. You take the lead. We want to know if they made the boots and when, and whatever they know of the man who bought them.”
A small bell tinkled as Ruth pushed the door open. The sound of hammering came from the back, closely followed by the smell of warm leather.
“And they’ll be ready this evening?” a man asked of the woman behind the counter.
The woman picked up a shoe, looked at it for a moment, and then put it down. “We can have it repaired in about an hour. It will take a little longer for the glue to dry. You can collect it at lunchtime.”
“That would be perfect, thank you,” the man said, and barely seemed to notice the two officers as he hobbled out of the store.
“How can I help you?” the woman asked.
“Um… yes. Do you make boots here?” Ruth asked.
“And shoes. I thought the police got issued with as many as you could eat,” she said with a smile.
“Did you make these?” Ruth asked, taking the boot out of the evidence bag.
“Maybe,” the woman said. “Hang on. Miranda?” she called into the back of the shop. The sound of hammering stopped. A moment later a woman in a thick leather apron appeared in the doorway behind the counter.
“What is it, Joyce?” Miranda asked. She saw the police. “What’s happened?”
“Did you make these boots?” Ruth asked.
“Let me see.” Miranda picked the boot up, turned it over, peered at the sole, and then nodded. “I did.”
“Do you remember anything about the man who bought them?” Ruth asked.
“Why?” Joyce asked, as she opened a drawer below the counter. “What’s happened?”
Ruth glanced at Riley. The constable nodded.
“Unfortunately, the man is dead. We’re—”
“We’re trying to identify him,” Riley cut in. “There was no ration book, no I.D.”
“He was robbed?” Miranda asked.
“It’s—” Ruth began
“We can’t say,” Riley said.
“Here,” Joyce said, holding up an index card. “Size ten, slight fallen arch on the right, wide toed, black leather. His name is Andy Anderson.”
“I remember him now,” Miranda said. “He’s the one who said he was from Iceland.”
“Iceland?” Ruth asked.
“Or his family were,” Miranda said. “He told us that they fished off the coast, that’s how they survived The Blackout. He said they took the boat south and landed in Scotland. Anders Anderson was his name, but he’d anglicised it to Andy. That was his story, but it sounded… well, it sounded as if he was making it up as he went along.”
“Do you remember anything else about him?” Ruth asked.
“He was short,” Joyce said. “About five-eight. Young. Of course you’d know that. What else… there was a slight Scottish burr to the accent, as if he’d grown up there, but there was no Scandinavian in it.”
“How much did the boots cost?” Ruth asked.
“Sixty pounds, but that includes a ten year guarantee,” Joyce said.
“It’s still a lot,” Ruth said.
“We pride ourselves on our quality,” Joyce replied defensively.
“Did you keep a record of how he paid?”
“Up front, and in twenty-pound notes,” Joyce said. “I remember that because the clothes he wore didn’t suggest he’d be able to afford it.”
“And do you have an address?” Ruth asked.
“Twenty-three Spring Close.”
“And the date?” Riley prompted.
“The twentieth of July,” Joyce said.
“There’s a lot of wear on these boots for two months,” Miranda said. “He must have worn them every day. Was it a bad end?”
“Good or bad, all ends are the same,” Riley said. “It’s the journey that offers variety. Thank you for your time.”
“Andy Anderson? That’s got to be fake, doesn’t it?” Ruth asked when
they were outside.
“Maybe,” Riley said, “you never know. You did good in there, but next time ask fewer questions. Let people talk. That way they’ll answer questions you didn’t know to ask.”
Ruth filed that away as another second-hand lesson from Sergeant Mitchell.
“Do we go to Spring Close?” she asked.
“First, we go back to the yard and speak to Mister Mitchell. What would you do if you were the killer?”
“Me?” Ruth asked. It wasn’t the question she’d been expecting.
“You run a counterfeiting ring. You’ve shot someone who you caught stealing from you. Or maybe he was sent to deliver the money and never returned. Either way, what would you do now?”
“Move, I suppose.”
“Me too. It’s been over twenty-four hours, I don’t think we’re looking for the counterfeiters any more, but are looking for where they’ve been.”
Chapter 5
Andy & Charles
“Back already? Did you strike out?” Mitchell asked. He stood by the wall on which he’d pinned the map that Ruth had seen him peering over the night before.
“We got a name. Andy, or Anders, Anderson,” Riley said.
“That sounds fake,” he said. “Anything else.”
“The shoes were bought on the twentieth of July, with three twenty-pound notes. Anderson was wearing rags at the time. Slight Scottish accent. We’ve got an address,” Riley said. “Twenty-three Spring Close. He told them his family escaped from Iceland after The Blackout, but they thought he was making that up.”
“Spring Close? Let’s see.” Mitchell ran a finger across the map. It had the precise jagged lines of old-world printing, but with dozens of more recent pencil and pen annotations.
“Here.” Mitchell pointed at a spot two miles north of Ruth’s own home. “Can’t tell much more than it was a housing estate. There’s no water or electricity. It’s a mile from the railway line, but it’s another two miles to the nearest station. It’s not a likely place for someone to live, though people do make their homes in the most unlikely of places.” On the wall next to the map was a pin with a piece of red thread hanging from it. Mitchell took it down and placed the pin on the map.
“This is where his body was found,” he said. He took another pin from the wall, stuck it in the map a few inches further to the west, and tied the loose end of string to it. “According to Rebecca Cavendish,” he said, “as soon as they spotted the body they began searching the trains, mostly to make sure nothing had been stolen. A small pool of blood was found in the rear car of a tannery train. Due to the smell, the inspections on those trains can be best described as cursory, which is why they didn’t find the bloodstain until last night. So, we now know that at 23:01 on the night of the murder, the train departed from the tannery at Holton.” He pointed at the second pin. “About twenty miles west of here. Between 01:50 and 02:00 the train passed the spot where we found the body.” He stuck a third pin into the map at a point just before the train tracks crossed the River Stour. He stretched the string around the pin until it was bent almost at a right angle. “It travelled around twenty miles east, and then ten miles north.”
“It took three hours to travel thirty miles?” Ruth asked.
“The tannery train is a low priority service. It would have had to pull into sidings to let more time sensitive cargo, like milk, to overtake. Or to put it another way, except for the first few miles, it spent so much time slowing and stopping, that Mr Anderson could have boarded pretty much anywhere.”
“But not Spring Close,” Riley said. “That’s nearly three miles to the east of that route.”
“Yes, it was too much to hope he’d give the address of his hideout. Cadet, if you were the counterfeiters, what would you do?”
Ruth glanced at Riley. There was a shadow of a smile on her face.
“I’d move, sir,” Ruth said.
“Exactly. It’s possible that Anderson wasn’t shot at the same location the money was printed. Let’s assume he was. Who was he? A counterfeiter who was betrayed? Or was he a thief who was caught? We don’t know, but whichever it is, the killer is unlikely to have stayed in the area. Do you remember what I said about computers? They need electricity. Where along here would they be able to steal the power?” He leaned forward over the map, tracing a finger along the train line from the tannery to the spot past Ringwood Junction where the body had been found. “Somewhere remote,” he muttered, “where no one would notice people coming and going yet not heading to work. Somewhere the sound couldn’t be overheard. Not a village. Not a town. Not a factory, at least not a large one… No, I don’t think they would set it up inside a legitimate business. There would be too great a risk of the operation being discovered. Hmm. The printer is the key here.”
“Could it be somewhere like the newspaper offices?” Ruth asked.
“No. Though you could find the computer in almost every house, the printer is something else. The one they use to print the newspaper wouldn’t work at all. In fact, I would guess their printer was made from other machines, stripped down and adapted to the paper and ink that we have available. The ink… maybe… yes,” he murmured, stepping back. “Whoever could build the printer could probably run a cable from a nearby building, stealing the electricity from the grid. The Electric Company keeps an eye on usage like, well, like people whose profits depend on it. So we are looking for somewhere a few thousand watts an hour wouldn’t be missed.”
“Not on this stretch to the west of the city,” Riley said.
“Why not?” Mitchell asked.
“He got off the train because it jolted him awake,” Riley said. “At that point it was travelling north. After he was shot, he would have intended to go to a hospital. He got off when he realised the train was taking him away from the city.”
“A reasonable assumption. That leaves us with this section of line here.” He pointed at a spot that the map marked as the old Bournemouth airport. “There’s a house near this factory, just south of the power plant itself, another here near the warehouse for the National Store, and this one close to the aluminium recycling works. We’ll check all three.”
Riley nodded. It took Ruth a moment to understand what he’d said.
“Don’t we need a warrant?” she asked.
“For a walk in the countryside? There’s no point,” Mitchell said. “I spoke to the commissioner. He was quite emphatic about this being Weaver’s case, and she’s still busy with the coroner. No, we’ll go and take a look for ourselves. Someone has to, and it’ll beat sitting around here. First, though, we’ll go to Spring Close. Even if it’s a false address to go with the fake name, there is a reason Mr Anderson chose it.”
Her bicycle wobbling slightly due to the unbalanced weight of the crime-kit – though this time without the sign – Ruth followed the other two away from the centre of Twynham. The leaf litter carpeting the roads grew deeper until, by the time they were approaching Spring Close, it had turned into a thin loamy soil covered in weeds, moss, and occasional saplings.
The houses in this neighbourhood were mostly abandoned. A few had been boarded up. Others had been stripped even of their window frames. The area had become a builder’s yard, the properties dismantled to form repairs on those closer to the coast or railway, but it wasn’t completely deserted. Where there had once been a garden in front of a house, there was now a patch of dug-over earth dotted with canes and shreds of thin netting.
“I don’t know why people live in places like this,” Riley said.
“No taxes,” Ruth said. That had been the saving grace of The Acre, at least until Mr Foster took over.
“Spring Close,” Mitchell said pointing at a battered road sign pinned to a low wall. “Riley, you go around the back, the cadet and I will find the front.”
The constable leaned her bike against a wall, and disappeared through a ragged hole where a door had once stood, and was soon lost amidst the rubble and broken timbers.
�
��Watch the windows,” Mitchell said as they dismounted and leaned their bikes next to Riley’s. “Look for movement and shadows.” He slowly walked into the close, his head moving from side to side. “Anything that shines,” he continued, “might indicate where metal has been recently abraded. Look at the soil in the gutters to see where bicycles, hooves, or feet might have disturbed it. Has trash been recently dumped in the street? Is there fresh manure? Is there a puff of steam from a chimney indicating where a fire has been hastily put out?”
The answer to those questions was no. The windows to number twenty-three were as dark as the rest of the curving row of terraced houses. Mitchell knocked on the door. There was no sound from within.
“Police,” he called, though not loudly enough to carry more than a few dozen feet. He pushed the door. It swung open, and Ruth saw that the lock was broken. With his left hand, Mitchell pointed at the bright yellow splinters around the lock, while his right went to the revolver at his belt. “Go back out into the road. Watch the windows,” he hissed, and went inside.
Ruth backed slowly away, feeling a rush of gratitude that she didn’t have to enter that dark and suddenly forbidding house. That was followed by a wave of guilt at her instinctive cowardice. She watched Mitchell disappear into the gloom, and only then remembered the gun at her own belt. She drew it, keeping the barrel pointing down as she looked from window to window.
She tried to count the seconds as they passed, but her racing heartbeat made her lose track. Then, in a window on the second-storey, she saw something. As instinct raised the revolver to point at the shadows behind the glass, she heard a voice from inside.
“It’s clear,” Mitchell called.
“Clear,” Riley echoed a moment later and from a little further away.
Ruth holstered her weapon. Flexing her fingers in an attempt to stop them from shaking, she went into the house. The front door led onto a narrow hallway. There was a staircase on the left, with a door just before the first step and two more leading off to the right. At the end of the hall was a fourth doorway, in which Riley now stood.
“You smell that?” Mitchell asked as he came down the stairs.
Strike a Match (Book 1): Serious Crimes Page 8
