The sheriff pointed along the ward, scowling. ‘We should have just left the piece of shit in the wreck.’
‘No, Comrade,’ Jenifa said levelly. ‘You shouldn’t. He’s ours.’
That earned her plenty of animosity from the other sheriffs.
‘You did a good job catching him,’ Chaing said.
‘Yeah? Five of our patrol cars got smashed up in the chase before we rammed that bastard off the road. It’s a crudding miracle nobody was killed.’
‘The PSR appreciates what you did, Comrade.’ Chaing carried on down to the main trauma suite. It was a bigger area than the assessment bays, with solid walls and double doors big enough to wheel surgical trolleys in and out. Three armed sheriffs stood outside. He ignored them, pushed the doors open, and strode in.
Two doctors and three nurses were in attendance. Chaing glanced at the man on the trolley. There were a lot of grazes and facial bruising, but he didn’t even have to compare what he was seeing with the file photo: it was Lukan. His clothes had been cut away, allowing bandages to be applied to both legs; blood was already soaking through them. One long arm was in a splint. His wrist was crushed, wrapped in a bloody dressing. A doctor was stitching up gashes on his torso.
‘Get out,’ Chaing ordered.
‘But—’
‘OUT!’
They went, cowed and sullen. Jenifa held the doors open for them.
‘Don’t let anyone in,’ Chaing told her, though he was more concerned that she wouldn’t be in the room when he began. He didn’t want a repeat of what she’d done to Joffler.
She nodded, and went out to stand guard.
Chaing studied Lukan for a moment. The driver was barely conscious. An intravenous drip of amanarnik had been set up, feeding the drug into his good arm to banish the pain. There was a supply regulator tap underneath the bag. Chaing turned it off.
One of the cupboards contained the trauma suite’s supply of bandages. He took out several and wound them round Lukan’s arms, binding him securely to the trolley. Once he’d finished that, he opened the man’s mouth and began feeding a bandage in.
As the drug wore off and the pain returned, Lukan began to moan. His awareness returned slowly. Head turning weakly from side to side. Eyes blinking into focus. His moans grew louder, confused as he realized his mouth was full of bandage. He frowned up at Chaing and tried to lift his arms. Another muffled protest emerged when he found he couldn’t move.
Chaing stared down at him. ‘You know, I’ve often heard my colleagues claim the worst possible thing that could happen to anyone is that they wake up to find themselves in a PSR basement, strapped down on an interrogation bench, with one of our professional torturers standing over them, lighting his blowtorch.’
Lukan strained against the bonds, trying to shout, the cords in his neck standing out in sharp relief. The wad of bandage crammed into his mouth prevented anything but a frantic mewling.
Chaing held up a scalpel in his good hand. Lukan froze, mesmerized by the blade. Chaing began to carefully cut along the bandages around Lukan’s leg, exposing the badly damaged flesh. ‘Personally, I disagree,’ Chaing said. ‘I think the worst thing that could happen to you would be if you woke up, strapped to a trolley – much like this one, in fact – with an amateur torturer standing over you. What do you think?’
*
Director Yaki had assigned Chaing to a big operations room on the third floor of the PSR’s Opole office. It had three long barred windows along one brick wall, and with typical PSR thoroughness the glass was misted to prevent the minute chance of anyone from looking in. Metal desks for the investigators were arranged in a long row, each with two telephones; the secretaries’ typing tables were smaller, and lined up behind them. Pinboards occupied the wall behind the chief investigator’s desk, which was the biggest in the room, and made of wood.
So far the boards had a standard street map of the city, and several photos arranged in a pyramid with Billop at the top, and his suspected senior lieutenants below. There were two further photos, one of Florian, and one of Lukan, over which someone had scrawled gotcha in red felt tip.
Chaing resisted a grin at that when he and Jenifa walked in that evening. He’d been appointed ten PSR investigators. Three records division clerks stood ready, with direct lines down to their basement offices to summon up whatever files the investigators wanted. Captain Franzal from the PSR assault squad had also been given a desk; Chaing and Yaki had agreed that the assault squad should be on standby throughout the investigation – and this time he didn’t need senior-officer authorization before deploying them. Even the transport pool was represented by a manager.
The only person not in a PSR uniform was Nathalie Guyot, a senior detective on secondment from the city’s sheriff office, who ran their gang investigation bureau. Yaki had brought her in as liaison; apparently no one knew more about Opole’s gangs than her.
When it came to running a case, Chaing couldn’t ask for a better support team. The only person missing was Lurvri. Damn, he would have relished working a case like this.
Yaki was waiting for him. ‘You have the floor,’ she told him quietly. ‘I’ll keep the county commander off your back for now, but given the scale this is running at, we’re going to need results. Stonal won’t take any responsibility for this.’
‘Understood,’ Chaing told her, and turned to face the room. ‘We have fresh information,’ he announced as the heavy door swung shut behind him. ‘Lukan was very eager to cooperate with the PSR.’ Knowing smiles appeared round the room. ‘He told me he delivered Florian to a warehouse on Connolyn Street early this morning. I want a team over there to check it out right away. The reception committee was three of Billop’s people: Perrick, terVask, and Bulron. I want their files up here within the hour.
‘Now, being the lowlife crud he is, Billop was going to dump Florian on the street and hold on to his money. Even the gangs realized Florian is too hot for them. According to Lukan, there was a fight. It was a short one, because Florian has some kind of Faller weapon. It’s like a gun that shoots lightning bolts.’ He paused for that to sink in. Stonal was adamant there was to be no mention of a Commonwealth connection, so they were still running with the nest-alert cover story.
‘That means,’ he continued, ‘when we do catch up with him, we will be taking extra precautions. Franzal and I will be drawing up an assault procedure later. In the meantime, our priority is bringing in Billop.’ He raised a hand as Nathalie Guyot gathered herself to speak. ‘Yes, I know he’s hard to find, so first I want to talk to our friends Perrick, terVask, and Bulron. We have a clock running on this, so I need them here by tomorrow midday at the latest. Draw up their full profiles, families, friends, where they hang out. Liaise with the sheriffs on this. Nathalie, what do we need to know about gangs?’
She nodded and stood up. At a hundred and ten years old, her hair was mostly silver, but her grey-blue eyes were still alert, and she was clearly enjoying her moment as part of the investigation. ‘Thank you, captain. Some background for you all. There are four main gangs in Opole. The largest is run by Roxwolf, who I’m embarrassed to say we still haven’t shut down after fifteen years. He is the smartest, most ruthless gang boss we’ve had in the last hundred years; we’ve never been able to pin a damn thing on him. I can’t even give you a likeness, let alone a photo. Witnesses vanish, and it’s impossible to turn anyone. We’ve tried sending in undercover sheriffs, but he always spots them. Any illegal activity in this city runs with his approval. The other three gangs are nominally independent, but in reality he tolerates them, and most of their rackets are run jointly, with Roxwolf’s boys taking the lion’s share. Billop is the smallest of these.’ She put her hand on the map, tracing an outline. ‘The last gang territory war was three years ago, which saw a whole lot of the smaller operators wiped out, and left Billop with the eastern half of the Gates, extending out into the Veralson and Guntas districts. That’s his turf, as agreed with Roxwolf. After the w
arehouse fight, he’ll have gone to ground somewhere in that area. Captain Chaing is right: Perrick is our best way to him. And that leaves terVask and Bulron as the best way to Perrick; the three of them are a solid crew.’
‘Okay then,’ Chaing said. ‘It is imperative we get Billop into custody as soon as possible. Someone arranged for Florian to deliver waltans to Billop, and that someone is the best connection we have to Florian right now. Joffler doesn’t know who it was; he was told to collect the waltans and arrange shipment. Which means it’s Billop who has that name. So go and get me Billop.’
With the investigators given specific assignments, Chaing pulled Jenifa and Yaki aside. ‘I don’t like Billop being our only lead.’
‘I’d be disappointed if he was,’ Yaki said. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘Jenifa had the records division draw up a list of all Florian’s known family and associates from when he was growing up. I want to bring them in.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes.’
‘How many?’
‘Seventeen. And that’s really scraping the connections barrel. Florian wasn’t a sociable person.’
‘Okay, do it.’
‘His mother is Castillito.’
‘Crud. The civil-rights activist?’
‘Yes.’
Yaki clenched her jaw, which made her scar lighten. ‘Irrelevant, especially in this case. She doesn’t get any special treatment.’
‘I’d like to send the assault squad to carry out the arrest. They can search her home and offices too.’
‘Florian won’t have gone to her. That’s too obvious.’
‘Florian is very good at doing what we don’t expect.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Is he getting to you?’
‘Absolutely not. I’m just trying to think like him.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
*
Like most buildings in the Gates, Aunt Terannia’s club was high and narrow, its wooden beams warping over the centuries, leaving walls and floors without any level surface. The ground floor was given over to the club itself, with a small raised stage for musicians facing a floor with twenty tables. A bar along the rear served a good selection of beer, with more casks stored in a tiny cellar underneath. Steep, awkwardly angled stairs at the side of the bar led up to the first floor, which had the green room, cluttered with crates of glasses and spare furniture. The staff room was next door and even smaller, with a row of ancient lockers and a cracked porcelain sink. There was also the tiny manager’s office, where the desk covered half of the floor space, and boxes of spirits took up most of the rest.
The floor above that was Aunt Terannia’s apartment. Florian sat at the dining table in the living room, with Essie beside him, greedily scooping up porridge from a bowl. Dull thirty-year-old egg-blue paint on the cracked walls seemed to absorb light from the two electric bulbs hanging overhead, adding to the sense of decline, of no one caring. He tried not to look round because he knew he’d start judging, but he reckoned his lodge back in Albina valley was a better place to live.
Aunt Terannia poured herself some tea from a big pot glazed with an orange and green floral design into a matching cup. Florian remembered that crockery from his childhood. He and Lurji used to come visiting Aunt Terannia a lot when they were growing up; she was actually their mother’s second cousin, which made her about the only family they had in Opole.
‘What’s her name?’ Aunt Terannia asked; she was watching Essie closely.
‘Essie.’
‘Really? I remember another Essie. You were keen on her, as I recall.’
Florian blushed heavily. ‘I haven’t seen her since I left.’
‘Yet you called this girl Essie.’
‘It’s a good name.’
‘She calls you Daddy. Is she yours, Florian?’
‘Not exactly. Please. I can’t explain.’
‘This is me, Florian. Talk to me.’
Florian couldn’t meet her gaze. He’d forgotten how firm Aunt Terannia could be.
‘Where did this little sweetie come from, Florian?’
‘She was given to me by someone who trusted me. Please, I just need somewhere to stay for a few days.’
‘A few days? How did you get into the city, Florian? Every road is blocked by the sheriffs. Yesterday, the queues were kilometres long. It was all anyone was talking about in the club last night. Is it you they’re looking for?’
He nodded miserably.
‘They’re saying it’s a nest alert,’ Aunt Terannia continued. ‘We haven’t had one of those for a decade, and never on this scale. Is she a Faller?’
‘No!’
Terannia slammed a palm down on the table. ‘Then what is going on?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ he said wretchedly. ‘It’s for your own good.’
‘I decide what I do and do not need to hear.’ She narrowed her eyes to give him a fierce stare. ‘Is she Lurji’s?’
‘What? No. Please, stop asking!’
A man appeared in the doorway, dressed in blue and red striped pyjamas. He was probably a couple of decades older than Terannia, with ebony skin that was thick with wrinkles, and short curly hair that was nearly all silver. His beard was trimmed elaborately. A long gold earring hung from his right ear. ‘Asking what?’ he enquired lightly.
Florian looked at him, then back to Terannia. He blushed again.
‘Oh, Florian,’ she said in a disappointed tone. ‘Age doesn’t mean people can’t be happy together. It actually helps, being long past the time of exuberant youth’s foolishness.’ She grinned up and took the man’s hand. ‘Matthieu, this is my dearest nephew, Florian.’
‘Ah, the one you send all the textbook copies to. Pleased to meet you, Florian. Nice threads, by the way.’
Florian shook the hand he was offered. There was something wrong with Matthieu’s fingers. They weren’t straight, and the joints seemed swollen. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ he mumbled.
‘Florian needs somewhere to stay for a few days,’ Terannia said. ‘Half the government is hunting him, but he won’t tell me why.’
‘Quite right, Florian.’ Matthieu grinned as he sat down. ‘A man is entitled to his secrets. Don’t let her bully you.’
‘I might have known you’d take his side.’
‘We all share the same side,’ Matthieu chided. ‘Know your friends. Trust your friends. Love your friends,’ he chanted softly, and gave Florian an expectant look.
‘Florian doesn’t know any of your songs,’ Terannia said.
‘You’re a songwriter?’ Florian asked.
‘I’m a musician. Or I used to be.’
‘Matthieu plays drums with his jazz band here once a week. They’ve joined the electric trend. Even so, it’s very good.’
‘Not professional,’ Matthieu assured him. ‘Just amateurs having a good time jamming together. If you do stay, perhaps you’d like to come and hear us play?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Florian, who didn’t like jazz at all.
‘Are you going to call your mother?’ Terannia asked.
‘I don’t want her involved.’
‘She will be, Florian. They’re blocking the roads, searching the train stations and the port. You think they’re going to leave your mother alone?’
Florian dropped his head into his hands. ‘Oh crud.’
‘Your mother is a very tough lady,’ Matthieu said. ‘If they cross her, they’ll regret it.’
‘They’ll come here!’
‘I doubt they know we’re related, so this is safe. I’m more worried about your future. Do you actually have a plan? Are you trying to meet someone to hand the girl on?’
‘No. It’s not like that. I just have to stay away from the PSR for a month. It’ll all be over then.’
‘The PSR won’t stop, Florian. They never stop. I don’t know what you’ve done, but it must have really pissed them off.’
‘I didn’t do anything,’ he whispered
fiercely.
Terannia and Matthieu both looked at Essie, who had now started munching down buttered toast.
‘Who is she, Florian?’
‘I can’t. I’m sorry. If you can loan me some money, I’ll go.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You wouldn’t last ten minutes out there. Every sheriff in the city is looking for you; that means every informer, too.’
Florian hung his head. ‘That’s not all,’ he admitted.
‘Go on,’ Terannia groaned. ‘If I’m going to protect you, I need to know.’
‘The man I take the waltans to, Joffler. He contacted a driver called Lukan, who got me into Opole this morning.’
‘I’ve heard of Lukan,’ Matthieu said. ‘He’s quite a legend – in his own eyes.’
‘Yes. But the thing is, they all work for Billop. And Billop’s people were waiting for me. There was this . . . sort-of fight.’
‘Oh great Giu,’ Terannia said. ‘And I always thought Lurji was the problem one!’
‘I’m sorry, Aunt Terannia. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.’
‘I’m kidding, Florian. There was a fight, then? With Billop’s lieutenant? And you got away free?’
‘Did you shoot him?’ Matthieu asked quickly.
‘What? No! Well, not exactly. They did get hurt. I knocked them out.’
‘They? How many are we talking about?’
‘Three. Well, four if you count Lukan.’
‘You knocked out four gang thugs?’ Terannia said in astonishment. ‘Singlehanded? Crud, Florian. That warden’s job turned you into a real tough guy.’
‘So it’s the PSR, the sheriffs, and Billop’s people who are going to be looking for you?’ Matthieu said.
Florian exhaled loudly. ‘Yes.’
‘Wow.’
Terannia and Matthieu exchanged a glance.
‘What is it that you need, Florian?’ she asked. ‘From us, I mean.’
‘Just somewhere peaceful to stay. It’ll only be for a month, I swear. After that, it won’t matter.’
‘So you’ve said. Can you at least tell me what happens in a month?’
He gave Essie a fond glance. ‘I don’t really know. But it will only be a month. I know that.’
Night Without Stars (Chronicle of the Fallers Book 2) Page 30
