Had she done the right thing in going to the commissioner? Ruth wasn’t sure. She wasn’t sure of anything except that a year of training had in no way prepared her for the job she was now doing. What she wanted was some simple, mundane task that would keep her hands busy while her brain could focus on her future.
“You all right?” Riley asked.
“I was thinking about yesterday,” Ruth said, and it was a quarter true.
“Try not to.”
“How’s your head?” Ruth asked. Riley was wearing a baggy cap, the edge of a thin bandage visible underneath.
“I’ve had worse.”
Silence returned.
“Did you find anything at the pub? The Marquis?” Ruth asked after another tedious hour had passed.
“Possibly,” Riley said. A minute went by. Just as Ruth had decided to give up on any further attempts at conversation, Riley continued. “There are between twelve and fourteen criminals who haven’t been seen in over a month. They’re the casual, do-any-job-for-the-right-price type who could be involved in anything. Or they could have gone straight. Depending on whether Lefty Johnson is a different person from Two-Fingers Johnson, one or two people were last seen heading to Kent to pick apples. To find out where the rest of them went will take a week, maybe two.”
“It’s a lead though,” Ruth said.
“Maybe. It won’t tell us where they are now, and I think anyone involved in this crime is destined for nothing more than a shallow grave. Remember what happened to Hailey Lyons?”
Ruth couldn’t forget, no matter how hard she tried.
“It’s definitely Standage,” Mitchell said before the door to the room had closed behind him. “Her house is dark, and no one’s been there for at least the last two nights. Possibly longer, depending on which neighbour you ask.”
“Any sign of a struggle?” Riley asked.
“No. But someone did go inside and look around. I’d say it was more a mission of curiosity than a thorough search.”
“Could it be a marital dispute?” Riley asked.
“You mean that her husband could have taken their son away, and she hasn’t reported it? I don’t think so,” Mitchell said. “Abduction is more likely. Specifically, I suspect she was blackmailed into giving them the designs, and perhaps access to the ink and paper, and then pressured into providing information about the case. Either because of Anderson’s death, or because of whatever event triggered Anderson to steal that money in the first place, extra leverage was needed. Her child was kidnapped, the husband taken to look after the boy. Of course, this means that all three are likely to be killed as soon as she’s no longer useful. That will be soon.”
“Isn’t that a leap, sir,” Ruth said. “I mean…”
“Go on, say it,” Mitchell said.
“Well, it seems like you’re trying to get the facts to fit your theory,” Ruth said. “She could have been having an affair and the husband could have had enough and gone to stay with family in Wales or somewhere. Or maybe she’s the one orchestrating the whole thing.”
“If it was the second, it’s unlikely she would have come in to work,” Mitchell said. “And it’s even more unlikely she would have used serial numbers that had yet to be issued. As to your first point, Mr Standage is a surveyor for the Electric Company, and hasn’t been seen at work. He would have told them if he was going away, or written to them after he’d left. We have someone who works at the Electric Company, and another who works at the Mint. That fills in some of the gaps that Turnbull couldn’t. And that,” he added as Ruth opened her mouth to utter another protest, “brings me to the last piece of news. Turnbull is dead.”
“How?” Riley asked.
“Suicide. Poison. A capsule he had hidden in a button on his coat. That is the story being told in Police House. I don’t buy it.”
“But he was in custody,” Ruth said.
“Exactly,” Mitchell said. “Which means that if it wasn’t suicide, they have someone on the inside.”
“In the police?” Ruth couldn’t believe it.
“Why not?” Mitchell replied. “If there can be an insider in the Mint, then why not the police?” He peered out the window. “The work day will finish soon. Standage will come out. We’ll follow her. We’ll question her, and then… I don’t know. We’ve only got a handful of pieces, and that isn’t enough to even tell what game is being played.”
At half-past four, the door to the bank was closed. The last few customers trickled out until, at a few minutes after five, the employees began leaving, mingling with workers from the other offices nearby.
“No. Not yet. That’s not her,” Mitchell muttered. The flood slowed, until, by half past, the road was almost empty. “There,” he said. “That’s her.”
But Ruth had already seen her. Standage stood by the door, looking up and down the street.
“Is she waiting for someone?” Ruth asked.
“I’m not— No, there she goes,” Mitchell said. “She’s heading south. Riley?”
The constable left.
“Now you,” Mitchell said. “And remember what I told you.”
Ruth nodded and hurried from the room. Mitchell’s instructions had been brief. Riley, who Standage had never met, would follow the woman. Ruth, who Standage probably wouldn’t recognise, would follow Riley from a distance of no closer than fifty yards. Mitchell would follow Ruth. Beyond that, the sergeant had told her to try to look as if she was heading home after a long, tedious day. That, at least, wasn’t hard.
Keeping the constable just in view, Ruth followed her through the centre of town, past market stalls and shops thrumming with after-work passing trade. At first, she thought they were heading towards the old priory, but the constable made an abrupt right turn into a compact terraced street. Another turn, another road, another dirt-trodden street. Large homes were replaced by smaller ones, and then by a row of boarding houses. The roads grew steadily worse as they left the old town of Christchurch behind and headed towards the ruined city of Bournemouth.
No one wanted to live near the glassy crater at the centre of the old city, and even four miles away, houses showed signs of blast damage. There were rough repairs to roofs, and some walls had been propped up, but no one had bothered removing the rubble from where buildings had collapsed. It was home to those people who’d never adjusted to life after The Blackout, yet who’d not given into death even twenty years on. Those lost souls kept their heads down as they tracked a path through the drifts of decaying leaves, their eyes fixed on some distant memory now forever gone.
Riley stopped. Ruth did the same until she saw the constable wave her on.
“She disappeared,” Riley said. “Keep walking.”
“Do you know where she went?” Ruth asked.
“Down one of the streets we just passed. I don’t know which,” Riley said.
They kept walking until they reached another junction and found Mitchell waiting there.
“You did a good job, cadet,” Mitchell said.
“I did?”
“Yes, you were perfectly conspicuous. If there had been anyone keeping an eye on Mrs Standage they would certainly have seen you. There wasn’t.”
“I was bait?” she asked.
“Don’t say it like that,” Mitchell said. “You did the job perfectly. Now, we need to find her. It’ll be a building nearby. Eyes open. You two take the west. I’ll check the east.”
A battered sign pinned to the side of an equally battered shop said that they were on Autumn Road. Something jolted in Ruth’s memory. She looked around.
“No,” Riley hissed. “Eyes down, shoulders slumped. Let your feet drag. Look up every fifth step, then down again, and use that time to think about what you saw.”
Ruth thought the almost rhythmic bobbing of her head would have been more noticeable than had she gawked at every building. The more she saw of the district, the more she decided it didn’t matter. They passed a shop she thought must have been closed sin
ce The Blackout just as a woman shuffled outside, a greasy package under her arm. Across the road was a far larger shop. The chipped paint and plastic sign proclaimed it to be ‘Sandy Weathers. Electrical Repairs’. Underneath, though not quite as faded, was another sign in almost the same shade of red. ‘And Her Sons’. There was no smoke coming from the chimney. That struck Ruth as odd since the windows were newly boarded up and the building was in better repair than the rest of the street. Then she realised.
“Keep walking,” she said.
“What? You’ve seen it?” Riley asked.
“I think so,” Ruth said, and led the constable into the first narrow alley they came to.
“Which one?” Riley asked.
“That shop with the black and red sign out front.”
“You sure?” Riley looked up and down the alley, flattened herself against the wall, and then peered around the corner for a fraction of a second. “Why?”
“The sign,” Ruth said. “Did you see the sign?”
“Sandy Weathers. Electrical Repairs,” Riley said.
“And the other sign. ‘And her sons’. Sandy and her sons. Andy Anderson. There’s no way that can be a coincidence.”
Riley took another look.
“Maybe. You stay here. Don’t be seen. I’ll get Mister Mitchell. No, not like that. Lean against the wall like you’ve nowhere in the world to go. Hands in your pockets. Slump your shoulders. Better. Stay out of sight.”
Ruth did, for about a minute, but she couldn’t resist peering around the corner. It looked more like a warehouse than a shop and seemed out of place. From what she could tell from a street where there was more rubble than roofs, most of the properties had been houses.
She pulled her head back from view and checked the time. It had been five minutes. Where were Mitchell and Riley? She peered round the corner again.
The door to the shop opened. She thought she heard something coming from inside. A man stepped out onto the street and closed the door behind him. Ruth wasn’t sure, but that sound might have been a child’s cry. She told herself not to jump to conclusions, yet she was certain that this was the building into which Standage must have gone.
The man was heading towards her. Ruth ducked out of view and weighed her options. Certainly there was nothing she could do about what was, or wasn’t, going on in the shop. Riley would tell Mitchell, and that left Ruth with nothing to do but get backup. If the shop was connected to the crime, then so was the man and wherever he was going to. She would follow him, and then she would go to the commissioner and get the Marines he’d promised. She moved down the alley, into deeper shadows, and waited for the man to walk past. Any second now, she thought. Any second now. It was odd, though, she couldn’t hear any footsteps.
“What’s a girl like you doin’ around ‘ere?”
Ruth jumped back. The man stood in the alley’s mouth, eight feet from her.
“Nothing,” she mumbled, hanging her head. “It’s a free country, init?”
“It’s never been that. Let me ‘ave a look at you.” He stepped forward. She stepped back. He laughed. She took another step back.
“Don’t make me chase you,” he leered.
And she knew there was no point trying to run. He was too close. He would catch her. Where was Mitchell? Where was Riley? Then a voice reminded her that she was police.
“Big mistake,” she said, tugging her revolver from under her coat. “I’m police and you’re under arrest.” The end of the barrel caught on cloth. She wrenched it free. But the man was already moving towards her. The gun was pointing down as his forearm smashed into her chest, and a vice-like grip clamped down on her wrist. As she fell, her finger curled on the trigger. The gun went off, but his grip didn’t slacken. His weight on top, she slammed into the ground. Something sharp jarred against her shoulder and she wanted to scream, but his forearm was now pushing down on her neck.
“Bit young for police, aren’t you?” he hissed, a mouthful of foetid air blowing into her face.
She tried pulling the trigger again, but her fingers wouldn’t work. The pressure around her neck was growing. Her vision was narrowing. All she could see was his face, and she didn’t want that to be the last thing she ever saw. With her free hand, she tried to claw at his eyes. He shifted his weight, stamping his knee down on her stomach.
With the sudden, excruciating pain came a memory of Friday afternoons at the academy. The mixture of boxing, wrestling, and riot control was always taught with one eye on the clock, and an assumption that the class was unnecessary. At the end of each session the instructor always finished with a reminder that when all else failed, they had their revolver. But her weapon was useless now.
This was it, she thought. This was death.
No. It couldn’t be. Where was Mitchell? Where was Riley? Surely they’d save her. But no one was coming. She was on her own. Live or die. It was down to her.
“And if you’ve run out of bullets,” their instructor had said, “club ‘em with the barrel. Hit ‘em with something that ain’t your fist, unless you want an ‘andful of broken bones.”
Desperate, she scrabbled with her free hand, searching the ground for something, anything. Her fingers curled around stone. A brick. She swung it up in a ninety-degree arc, straight into the side of the man’s face. There wasn’t much strength to the blow, yet the man suddenly froze. His eyes widened. His jaw went slack, the hand gripping her wrist went limp, and he collapsed on top of her. The weight knocked the last of the air from her lungs. With her knees as much as her hands, she heaved his body clear, and crabbed away. Somehow the revolver was still in her hand. Gripping it two-handed, she pointed the gun at the man as she gasped for breath.
He was motionless. Unconscious, she thought, except she hadn’t hit him that hard. Somehow, the brick was still stuck to the side of his head. Her vision cleared. Understanding dawned. It wasn’t a brick. It was a lump of rubble, out of the end of which was a spike. No, half a spike. The other half of that jagged metal rod was now embedded in the man’s brain.
She scrabbled away from the corpse until her back was against the wall, and kept moving until she was standing up, leaning against it for support.
He was dead. She’d killed him. Before that had a chance to sink in, a shot rang out. Then another. And she realised that there had been other shots as she’d fought with the man. The gunfire was coming from inside the shop.
She staggered out of the alley, and across the road. She had to investigate. She was police. She had to. Automatically, she reached for the door, pulling it open. She had to go inside. She had to. It was only after she’d stepped into the gloomy interior did she remember to raise her weapon.
To her left was a figure. She swung the barrel around, but again she wasn’t fast enough. This man grasped her wrist, but unlike the dead man, his grip was gentle.
“What happened?” Mitchell asked, taking the gun from her hand.
“Someone came out. I killed him,” she said. “I had to.”
“This way,” he said, leading her to a bench. Her foot slipped on something, but Mitchell had an arm at her elbow, catching her before she fell. She sat and looked at the floor. It was covered in dirt and dust, and blood. Two bodies lay near the entrance. Both had been shot. She stared at the bodies for a long minute and realised Mitchell had gone. She stood and walked over to the corpses. She peered at one body and then nudged the other with the toe of her boot until she could see what was left of the face. It didn’t look like Emmitt or Clipton. For some reason that struck her as funny. She laughed.
“Come and sit down,” Mitchell said.
“Where’s Riley?” she asked, shrugging off his hand.
“Taking Standage and her family back to the police station. I thought they’d be safer out in public than in here.”
“Standage was here?”
“And so were her husband and son. But I need you over here,” Mitchell said.
“You do? Why?” she asked, this time letting
him lead her over to a corner of the shop.
“They were expecting a collection this evening.” That comment baffled her until she realised his hand was pointing towards the centre of the shop. It took a moment for her eyes to focus on the suitcases piled there.
“Were they going away?” she asked.
“It’s the money,” Mitchell said, “the cases that were taken from that abandoned house. It’s going to be collected tonight. We’ve got thirty minutes before help arrives. Maybe longer. Keep your eyes on the front door. If they come, we’ll have to fight.”
She stared at the door. Then she realised her hands were empty. She reached for her holster, but touched unfamiliar cloth instead. Of course, she remembered, she wasn’t in uniform, and then everything else came back to her all in a rush. The man, the arm on her neck, the hand on her wrist, the foul, stinking breath. She closed her eyes, but it wouldn’t go away.
“It’s all right,” Mitchell said. “It’s over.”
Ruth shook her head, not in disagreement, but in an attempt to rid it of the image of the dead man, and the spike sticking out of the side of his head. She opened her eyes wide, gritted her teeth and focused on the door. The sergeant, she realised, was facing the other way. She turned to see what he was looking at.
“Keep your eyes on the front. I’ve got the back,” he said.
“Right. Yes. Shouldn’t I have a gun?”
He placed the revolver next to her. “Don’t pick it up yet. Wait.”
She looked at the gun, and then the door. Suddenly she felt cold.
“I had no choice,” she whispered.
“You did what you had to do,” Mitchell replied.
“I could have run, or called for help,” she said. Mitchell said something, but she didn’t hear what. She was lost in the past, replaying the scene trying to find someway that it could have ended differently.
“Mitchell!” a voice called from outside.
“Weaver?” Mitchell replied. “Is that you?”
“Yes. We’re coming in.”
Weaver wasn’t alone. With the captain were a dozen Marines and a score of police.
Strike a Match (Book 1): Serious Crimes Page 15
