Inside the doors, beyond a pair of unarmed security guards, were two queues, one for deposits, another for withdrawals. Behind the tellers, Ruth could see scores of people with heads bent low over desks. She couldn’t even guess at what they were doing.
“Cadet?” Mitchell prompted.
In the far corner, a young man sat at a desk that blocked the entrance to a set of doors behind him.
“Sergeant Mitchell. Officer Deering. We have an appointment with Mr Grammick.”
“Yes of course,” the man said without glancing down at the ledger in front of him. “But you’re rather early. You’ll have to wait.”
“I don’t think so,” Mitchell said. “I have an autopsy in thirty minutes. Have you ever seen a corpse on a slab, the body cut open from neck to navel?” He leaned forward and pressed a finger against the man’s throat and then drew it down his chest. “The sound of the rib cage cracking is something you never forget.”
“I’ll… I’ll just… Excuse me.” The man hurried away.
“Knowing how to communicate is essential to good policing,” Mitchell said, a gleam in his eye.
The lines in front of the tellers shrank as customers were served and grew as more came in. There seemed to be more deposits than withdrawals. Presumably it was from the previous day’s trading. Money was something that they’d never had much of while Ruth had been growing up, and so it wasn’t something to which she’d ever given much thought. She watched as a trader passed a thick envelope to the teller. The woman’s head nodded, and her lips silently moved as the money was counted, then recounted. She gave a firmer nod in agreement at the amount, before something was passed across the desk, signed, passed back, and countersigned. The trader took her receipt and left, but not without a few uncertain glances back at the teller.
“One more minute, and we’re going,” Mitchell said. “Time it.”
The door opened, someone came in, someone went out, and the lines concertinaed again. Twenty, thirty, forty seconds. Ruth heard a noise behind her. The clerk was holding the door open for the same woman who’d come with Captain Weaver to the cabin the day before.
“Ms Standage, isn’t it?” Mitchell asked.
“Mrs. Mrs Standage,” the woman replied.
She wore the same outfit as the previous day, and her hair was almost out of place. She looked as if she’d not slept.
“And is our appointment with you?” Mitchell asked.
“With Mr Grammick, he’ll be with us in a moment. This way, please.”
Her tone was distracted. No, Ruth thought, not distracted, the woman was alert, and her posture was rigid, but she seemed preoccupied. So did everyone else whom they passed. Some rushed one way, some the other. Presumably it all stemmed from the discovery of the counterfeiting, but was there a purpose to it, or was everyone simply trying to look busy? Then Ruth noticed the woman’s shoes. They were the same odd pair she’d been wearing the day before.
“In here.” Mrs Standage indicated a small, windowless room with a table and four chairs. “Please, have a seat.”
Mitchell took one facing the door. Ruth sat next to him. Mrs Standage sat down with obvious reluctance.
“You’re in charge of quality control, is that right?” Mitchell asked.
There was a pause. “Yes,” Mrs Standage finally said.
Ruth thought the sergeant would ask her to clarify what that meant. He didn’t.
“Do you have children?” he asked instead.
“Yes,” she answered immediately. “A… a son.”
“How old is he?”
“Six.” It came out in a whisper.
“That’s a good age,” Mitchell said. “When they’re still asking questions but are old enough to understand some of the answers.”
There was a slight curl to Mrs Standage’s lips, as if she was about to smile, but the door opened before she could.
“Ah, detectives!” a ruddy faced man barked as he came into the room. Behind him was another clerk, this one holding a tray with two cups. The tray was placed on the table.
“Is that coffee?” Mitchell asked, taking what must have been an involuntary sniff.
“It is. It is,” the man said. “The real stuff. I thought you might like a cup. A taste of home. You’re from America, aren’t you, sergeant?”
“A long time ago,” Mitchell said, eyeing the steaming cups. “And you are Mr Ian Grammick, deputy director of the Mint and special advisor to the Chancellor.”
“Ah, so you’ve done your homework, too,” Grammick said. If anything, his smile grew wider. “That will be all, Bailey,” he added. The clerk left. “Yes,” Grammick continued. “I have special responsibility for inflation, or seeing that there isn’t any. As such, any matter that threatens the stability of the currency comes into my remit. As for the Royal Mint, I am in charge of circulation, so counterfeiting is very much my bailiwick.”
The Royal Mint, Ruth noted. Britain had been a monarchy, and technically it still was, though there had been no head on which to hang a crown for the last two decades. No one bothered with the word, whether it was for the Mint, the Marines, or the Mail. Similarly, no one remarked on the portrait of a long dead monarch on the reverse of the banknotes, or how all ships were christened as ‘HMS’ but referred to as ‘SS’ from the moment the gangplank was raised. No one Ruth knew, anyway.
“Is there much counterfeiting?” Ruth asked.
“Oh, people try all the time, but it’s rare for us to find false currency actually in circulation. Please, do try the coffee. It was a gift from the American ambassador. It’s from Puerto Rico, or Costa Rica. I don’t recall which. They’ve started cultivating the wild plantations there.”
“Really?” Mitchell asked. “I’m surprised they have the resources.”
“It’s for trade,” Grammick said, clearly pleased at being able to demonstrate his knowledge, and thus his proximity to the centre of power. “It’s part of the deal they’ll formally sign at the end of the week.”
“We’re getting real coffee in exchange for food? That doesn’t seem like a fair trade at all,” Ruth said.
“Ah, this is only part of it. A small part, and really the most insignificant, but as a symbol it will be the most tangible.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it in the shops,” Mitchell said. “How many forged twenty-pound notes have you found in circulation?”
“What? None,” Grammick said. “That’s right isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” Mrs Standage said. “I… as I understand it, the criminals were stockpiling the currency, not spending it.”
“That’s not strictly true,” Mitchell said. “We know of at least some notes being used to purchase clothing in July.”
“Really? In July?” There was a crack in Grammick’s bombastic demeanour.
“Deering, why don’t you tell Mr Grammick what we’ve discovered?” Mitchell said as he picked up a cup and took a sip.
Ruth went through the events of the past two days again. She kept the explanation brief. Even so, Mitchell had finished the first cup and had started on the second before she’d reached the point where they’d arrested Turnbull.
“Well, broadly, that is the account we had from Captain Weaver,” Grammick said when Ruth had finished. “And from what you say I doubt more than a very small amount of forged currency has entered circulation. I don’t think we need to worry. Do we?” He looked to Mitchell for an answer.
The sergeant took a long gulp, draining the second cup before answering. “That’s really for you to determine,” he said.
Grammick turned to look at Mrs Standage.
“I don’t… I have some questions,” she said.
“Go ahead,” Mitchell said.
She glanced at a sheet of paper before speaking. “Do you think there could be more than one printer?”
“Person or machine?” Mitchell replied. “It doesn’t matter, the answer’s the same. There could be. You’ll have to ask Captain Weaver. She’s in char
ge of the investigation.”
“But what do you think?” Grammick asked.
“Why not?” Mitchell said with a shrug. “Certainly, if I was you, I’d assume so.”
“Yes. Yes, I suppose you would,” Grammick said. “Well, we were planning on issuing new notes, and we’re bringing those plans forward. We should have most of the currency replaced by Christmas.” Again he looked to Mrs Standage for confirmation.
“By the first of December,” she corrected him.
“I hope that will be soon enough,” Mitchell said. “Did you have any other questions?”
Mrs Standage looked blank, as if she’d forgotten the list of questions on the table in front of her. “Did you…” She looked down. “Did you see any evidence as to where the paper came from?”
“Anywhere other than the official mill, you mean? No,” Mitchell said. “Do you think it was stolen?”
“Possibly,” Grammick replied. “There was a flood about six months ago in which a lot of stock was destroyed. Or we thought it was destroyed. Was it six months ago?”
“In April,” Mrs Standage said.
“That’s the theory we have at the moment,” Grammick said.
“How much paper do you keep on hand?” Mitchell asked.
“Enough to meet the needs of every depositor,” Grammick said.
It wasn’t really an answer, Ruth thought, and surely paper might be ruined in a flood, but it wouldn’t disappear. She was about to ask that, but Mitchell spoke before she could.
“What about ink, how much is missing?” the sergeant asked.
“That, I don’t know,” Grammick said. “You’d have to ask someone at the chemical works.”
“You don’t do the printing here?” Mitchell asked.
“Oh, we do. Downstairs. But the ink is delivered once a week. We only receive what we need, and we always use it all.”
“It’s delivered on Fridays,” Mrs Standage said, almost automatically.
“Can’t you just recall all the twenty-pound notes?” Ruth asked. “I mean, that was all they seemed to be printing.”
“We can’t do that,” Grammick said. “People will ask questions, and we won’t be able to give them an answer that won’t result in them trading the money for goods. Without confidence, the currency will collapse, and so will this trade deal. That is critical. I can’t say any more than that.”
“I see. Well, I think that covers it,” Mitchell said. “For now. Thank you for your time, and the coffee. If you’ve more questions about the investigation I suggest you ask Captain Weaver. If we have any more, rest assured, we’ll be in touch.”
He stood and held out his hand.
“I… but…” Grammick began, the smile slipping from his lips for a fraction of a second. “Of course,” he said, standing. He shook Mitchell’s hand. “Thank you.”
“Not a word,” Mitchell said as they left the Mint. “Not yet.”
He peered at the doors for a moment, then at the buildings on the other side of the increasingly busy street. “This way.”
He led her down the road that led along the south side of the Mint. They followed the wall until they reached a wide iron gate at the back of the building. Inside was a loading bay from when it had been a supermarket. Outside, watching them with bored interest, were two armed Marines.
“Morning,” Mitchell said. “Are you usually on duty here?”
The two sentries looked at one another.
“Let me rephrase that,” Mitchell said. “Were you deployed here yesterday? You can just nod if you like.”
The Marines exchanged another look. Finally, one answered. “Yes. There’s someone on duty night and day.”
“And inside as well? I thought so. Do the staff use this door?”
“If they did, they don’t anymore,” the sentry said.
“They just use the front, the one for the bank?” Mitchell asked.
The Marine gave another nod.
“Interesting. Interesting,” Mitchell muttered. “Thank you for your time.” He continued walking, and Ruth continued biting down on the growing number of questions until they’d looped the building and were back on the main road.
“The market,” Mitchell said, and then proceeded to lead her through it to a doorway between two stalls, both selling nearly identical cuts of venison. The door led to a branch of the National Store, this one selling nothing but crockery in every colour of the rainbow, alongside a few that weren’t.
“Dmitri,” Mitchell said, addressing the stout man behind the counter. He glanced around the shop, checking it was empty. “Do you still keep that room upstairs?”
“It’s only temporary,” Dmitri said. “There’s a problem with the drains at—”
“Don’t care. We need the room. No questions.” Mitchell pulled a one-pound note from his pocket and placed it on the counter. It disappeared immediately and was replaced by a key.
“This way.” Mitchell led Ruth up a rickety staircase and along a dark corridor to a chipped door. He unlocked it, and they stepped into a surprisingly large and well-furnished room.
“Dmitri’s been living here since they got electricity in the shop,” Mitchell said, by way of explanation. He dragged an armchair close to the window and pulled back the curtain. “That’s got to be at least eight years ago, but it’s always only temporary, until some emergency repair is finished on his house. Yes, there’s a good view of the Mint from here. You can see the door, and anyone who comes out. Good. All right, cadet, tell me what you made of that little meeting.”
“Um, well, Mr Grammick didn’t seem to know very much.”
“No. Maybe he’s very good at something, but it isn’t paying attention to the fine details. What else?”
“I don’t think they know where the paper or ink went missing from.”
“It’s probably been stolen from right under their noses. I doubt Grammick’s ever heard of stock control. Anything else?”
Ruth thought. “You suspect someone there of being involved, don’t you?”
“I know it,” Mitchell said.
“It’s Mrs Standage, isn’t it?” Ruth said.
“Why do you say that?”
Partly it was because Ruth didn’t think it was Grammick, and that didn’t leave many other people for Mitchell to have become so suddenly suspicious of.
“It’s the clothes,” she said, “specifically the shoes. They’re the same odd pair she wore yesterday, and that means she didn’t go home.”
“She has a six-year-old son,” Mitchell said. “I could believe that she hasn’t had much sleep, but she has to have slept somewhere, if only for a few hours. Yet she didn’t go home. While there are plenty of innocent explanations for that, the truly villainous one is more believable. Forget the paper and ink. Those could have been stolen by one of a hundred different people, perhaps someone who took the job purely for that purpose. Think about the designs, and the image on the computer back in that house. Someone stole that. Now think about how they discovered those notes were forged. The serial numbers had yet to be issued. Someone with access to the designs should have realised that. Had they used old numbers no one would have known unless they had the original and forgery side-by-side. No, I think that the insider wanted the forgery to be discovered. I fear this crime has taken a sudden dark twist, so I will sit and watch and wait, and then I will follow. If Mrs Standage didn’t go home last night, perhaps she won’t tonight.” He took out his pad and scrawled a note. “This is Riley’s address. If she’s not there try Police House. Bring her back here, but I want you both out of uniform.”
“Sir, the commissioner said I should keep him informed.”
“Yes, but at the moment there is nothing to tell him. When we do have something, rest assured, I will send you for his Marines. But not yet.”
Chapter 8
Self-defence
“Scone?” Riley asked, offering the bag to Ruth. She shook her head and kept her eyes fixed on the door to the Mint. Almost as
soon as she and Riley had arrived at the small apartment opposite the Mint, Mitchell had disappeared on an errand of his own. That had been… she glanced at her watch. Two hours ago. In that time, along with customers coming and going to the bank, some employees had left the Mint, but Standage wasn’t among them.
Ruth wondered if she’d made the right decision. Time would tell, and that was what was worrying her. Riley’s address in hand, she’d left Mitchell, but she’d not gone to the constable’s home. She’d returned to Police House and gone to speak to the commissioner. He’d been surprised to see her. She couldn’t tell how much of that was due to how quickly she’d returned and how much to that she’d returned at all. He’d asked she keep him informed, and barely two minutes after she’d stepped into his office, she was out again, finally heading towards Riley’s home.
The constable lived in a small cottage on the far side of the old priory. From what Ruth could see, she had the entirety of it to herself. Riley had taken the message in her stride. She’d made coffee – the ersatz kind – washed, dressed, and packed a bag with food almost before Ruth had changed into the set of borrowed clothes.
Ruth shifted in her seat, trying to find a position where her revolver, now holstered at her back and hidden under a calf-length coat, didn’t dig into her spine. The borrowed clothes seemed to be both too large and too small at the same time. She supposed that was a blessing, or she would have fallen asleep long before.
“It’s important to eat,” Riley said, pushing the paper bag almost under Ruth’s nose.
“Thank you,” she said, taking a scone. “They’re very nice,” she added after taking a bite. They tasted identical to every scone she’d ever had. “Did you make them yourself?”
“A gift from the baker. I don’t have time to cook. Don’t see the point. Not when there are people who spend their lives learning how to do it properly.”
Ruth nodded, but couldn’t think of anything else to say. It wasn’t that she didn’t have questions – like how a detective constable could afford a cottage that had both mains water and electric lights – but those didn’t matter.
Strike a Match (Book 1): Serious Crimes Page 14
