by Mark Lingane
Randeep backed into the kitchen at the rear of the building, picked up the landline receiver and jabbed a short number. The call went through to voice mail. “This is Randeep. Please check the dynamic variance of the isomagnetic foundation over London and get back to me. Thanks.”
He peered down the corridor, feeling the draw. Keeping his eyes on the front door, he made his way back to the bedroom. Kneeling down, he pulled out a small black device from the space under the loose floorboard. He went back to the corridor and turned into a small reception room at the front of the house. It contained two chairs, both high-backed recliners covered in mock leather. The fireplace mirrored the one in his bedroom. A small bookcase lined part of one wall.
Randeep pulled out a large volume and opened it to reveal a small laptop that was barely big enough to fit on his lap. He plugged the black device into the side USB port, then the reader he had been using at the hospital. Several cars drove past slowly. That was unusual in his quiet street and urged him to close the curtains. The room became cloaked in gloom, forcing him to turn on the dim incandescent bulb hanging from a frayed and twisted cord in the center of the ceiling. It barely generated enough of a glow to light the room.
He opened up his personally coded application and powered up the reader. The graphs that appeared on the small monitor had his mouth dropping open. The severity of the readings made him sweat; perspiration trickled down his brow. He suddenly felt ill. A quick online search for tablets to counteract radiation poisoning listed the nearest medical supplier. It was going to be difficult and awkward explaining why he needed them.
The data continued scrolling across the screen. He tilted his head and watched the lines swing wildly back and forth.
A firm and definite knock came from the front door, distracting him from the data.
Randeep paused, his eyes twitching toward the doorway. He closed the laptop and placed it under a cushion propped against the side of the recliner then hid the reader on the shelves. A second knock reverberated down the hall.
He went to the door and peered cautiously through the spy hole. There were two people with their backs to him, facing the street. They turned around as he opened the door narrowly and glanced out at them.
“Good afternoon, I’m DCI Tracy Hanson and this is DI Chambers. Are you Randeep Patel?” Hanson flipped open her warrant card and held it for Randeep to inspect. She looked down at his sweatshirt and noted the crest.
Randeep swept his hand over his thick dark hair and stared at the badge before glancing at Chambers. “Why doesn’t he get a first name?” he said to Hanson.
“I suggest you try not to cause trouble, sir. Are you Randeep Patel? It’s a simple question.”
“Are you looking for this person in order to arrest or interrogate him?”
Hanson and Chambers glanced at each other. The wind was blowing Hanson’s hair into her face. Chambers raised his collar against the prickly weather.
“We want to ask him some questions. We’re hoping he can assist us with our inquiries,” Hanson said, an edge of frustration entering her voice.
The Indian looked from face to face for several moments, eyeing them suspiciously, then finally nodded. “I’m not sure I can help you.”
“Can we come in?” Hanson said.
“Are you vampires?”
Chambers said, “What kind of question is that?”
“Vampires have to be invited over a threshold, otherwise they can’t enter a house. Do you have a warrant?”
“Do you have a cross?” Hanson replied.
“It’s just a couple of questions,” Chambers said. “Nothing more.”
Eventually, Randeep stepped aside and indicated the small reception room to his left. The officers made their way in, carefully inspecting the room.
“Please have a seat.” Randeep sat in the recliner, pushing against the pillow.
“I’ll stand,” Chambers said, his hands deep in his jacket pockets. His gaze drifted around the room. “This place is a bit bleak.”
“It’s home to me.”
Hanson cleared her throat. “Where were you at three AM the morning the plane went down?”
“I was here, sleeping in my bedroom.”
“Do you have anyone who can confirm that?”
“I live alone.”
“Who would want to live here? It’s hardly a welcoming place,” Chambers said.
“I don’t often get visitors.”
“Or vampires.” Chambers stared up at the cross that was nailed above the fireplace. It looked old.
“Did you study at university?” Hanson asked.
“No.”
“You’re wearing a Cambridge University sweater.”
Randeep glanced down. “I visited once, and bought it as a memento of the superior establishment.” He gave her a smile.
Hanson and Chambers glanced at each other.
“You’ve got nothing in here except crummy chairs and a couple of shelves. The paper’s cracked and the paint’s peeling,” Chambers said. “Heroin addicts live in rooms like this.”
“I’ve lived a chaste and pure life,” Randeep said, watching Chambers carefully.
The tall man walked around the room, examining the items on the shelves. He paused and ran his finger over the mantel. There was no dust. He glanced into the fireplace. “You have no pictures of family or friends,” Chambers said.
“Photographs fade. I prefer my memory.”
“Memories fade as well,” Hanson said.
“Not mine.”
Hanson was taken aback by Randeep’s matter-of-fact response.
“Some would say they improve,” Randeep said. “We remember things the way we want them to be. A photograph captures how things were and doesn’t change. There’s no imagination locked within the frame, no sense of possibility.”
They sat in the gloom as the chill grew and the sunlight faded.
“You ever light your fire?” Chambers said.
“Do you work for Candle Fire Industries?” Hanson snapped.
“Ah, I can answer that.” He closed his eyes and recited. “I am not a member of, and have no association with, the company known as Candle Fire or any of its affiliates.”
“Look at things from my point of view,” Hanson said. “You say you don’t work at a place that we followed you from, and you have no record on any of the government systems.”
“I could be a cleaner. An illegal immigrant, living off the state and stealing jobs from the British.” He wobbled his head.
“That was, without doubt, the most inauthentic Indian accent I have ever heard. It nearly sounded Welsh,” she said. “I know you were there. I saw you.”
“Where did you see me?”
“At the plane crash site.”
“Ah, but racial stereotyping has led to a forty-percent chance of inaccurate identification. Nighttime adds to this. At best you could be sixty to seventy-five percent unsure the alleged person you saw was me.”
“Good math for a cleaner,” Chambers said.
“When you’re a cleaner, people accuse you of many things.” Randeep glanced up at Chambers. “Poor accounting is one of them.”
“DCI, can I speak with you?” Chambers said. He led Hanson out into the corridor. “He’s not cracking. He probably won’t without irrefutable evidence. Are you positive?”
She hesitated before shaking her head. “It looks like him, it sounds like him. But it was dark.”
“Hanson, this is serious. You’re stepping over the line here. I’m prepared to go along with this to a certain extent, but you really need to think about your actions. What do you want out of this?”
“Chambers, may I remind you who is in charge here?”
“And you’re the one who’ll cop it if it all goes pear-shaped. I’m advising you about how it would appear to officials in that eventuality.”
She looked away and sighed in resignation.
He continued. “Give it one last crack. But we’ve got not
hing if he doesn’t waver, no matter how stupid his defense sounds.”
Hanson nodded and they moved back into the reception room. Randeep was standing by the fireplace, looking guilty. A phone rang in another room. Everyone went silent.
Ring-ring …
“Are you going to answer that?” Chambers said.
“It’s not my phone.”
Ring-ring …
“It sounds like it’s coming from the next room.”
“No, it’s definitely not mine,” Randeep replied. The room was now in near total darkness.
Ring-ring …
“Shall I go and see?” Chambers said.
“Remember, this is a private residence. You should have”—ring-ring—“the appropriate paperwork if you wish to search for something, which includes answering the phone.” A note of malice had entered Randeep’s voice.
“How about this,” Chambers said calmly. Ring-ring. “If it doesn’t stop within two more rings, then we see who’s calling.” Ring-ring. “It could be an emergency.”
The phone stopped mid-ring and the muffled voice of an elderly lady drifted through the wall. Randeep relaxed.
Another phone started to ring, much closer this time.
“That isn’t coming through the wall,” Chambers said. He purposefully knocked his knuckle against the wall, the hollow sound echoing between the thin partitions.
“Hello, Randeep, is that you?” came the old lady’s voice through the wall. “Are you performing your magnet experiments again? My microwave has gone weird.”
“That’s all we need,” Hanson said. She grabbed Randeep and twisted his arm into a lock. “You’re under arrest.”
“You have to read me my rights,” he yelped.
Hanson hesitated. “Very well. You have the right to be kicked up the backside by me. You have the right to contact someone regarding your arrest.”
“I invoke that right.”
“Eh?”
“I invoke the right to contact someone regarding the arrest.”
“Who are you going to call?”
“That’s my privilege. If you don’t give me the right, the case will be dismissed the moment we get to the police station.”
“How do you know so much about the process?”
“I’m afraid of deportation.”
She rallied against the urge to kick him to a bloody pulp. “Do you lie about everything?”
“No.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “DC Chambers, give him your cell.”
Chambers gave her a sideways glance that clearly expressed the thought that she should be offering her own, but handed over his cell. After all, she thought she was the boss.
“I’ll call from my own phone,” Randeep said, as he pushed the phone away.
“Chambers, go with him.”
The men disappeared into the kitchen. It smelled of exotic spices. Randeep picked up the ageing handset and entered the number. His face was blank as he waited for a response. He turned his back to Chambers and whispered hurriedly into the handset, cupping his hand around the mouthpiece. He glanced over his shoulder at Chambers before quietly hanging up. He turned.
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“What? No, you’re going down to the lockup.” Chambers folded his arms and stared at the Indian.
“As you wish. First I’ll collect some things that you may find interesting.”
Randeep made his way slowly back to the reception room, with an impatient Chambers following, glaring at his back. Randeep moved deliberately, collecting what appeared to be a random set of items, all the while glancing over at Hanson.
She eventually blew, frustrated by his apparent delaying tactics. She reached out to clutch his arm just as her phone rang. HQ again. She switched her attention between Randeep and her phone. Keeping him in sight, she took the call. It was Booker.
“Hanson, I’ve received a late-night call from the minister of state for policing and criminal justice,” Booker said. “He ripped strips off my back over you. What are you doing?”
“I’m apprehending a suspect, sir.” She glanced at Randeep.
“A suspect of what?”
“He’s involved in the crash …” She paused, realizing where the sentence was leading. She closed her eyes and waited for the response.
“The plane crash? The one I specifically told you that you were not to pursue? The one the PM gave to the military to deal with?”
“Sort of,” she spluttered.
There was a tirade from down the line. When it had finished, she pressed the disconnect button and stared at the phone.
She turned to Chambers. “Suspended.” Her knuckles whitened around the edges of the cell. She took in a deep breath and turned to leave.
Randeep’s face fell. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get you into trouble.”
“You called the minister of state. How do you even know …” She ran out of enthusiasm for the sentence. It no longer mattered.
They left the house and trudged away, leaving the young man watching them carefully through the bay window. The curtain closed and his face disappeared.
Randeep paced around the room. The woman was a rule breaker, which made her a risk. Statistically, her kind would be back with or without permission. She was out of the way for now, but a more permanent solution would be needed. His home wasn’t going to be safe enough, and the things within it were going to get him into a lot of trouble. He needed more power, better facilities, and somewhere to hide.
He picked up his work pass and stared at it. He’d never tried to see how far its access allowed him to go. But it was a military pass. That should lead to some interesting places.
17
THE NORTH MAIDA Vale view was a refreshing change from the doom to the south. Hanson sat in the nursery room watching out the window as small gangs of boys, barely old enough to be off training wheels, milled around below on the tiny local common, playing recklessly on the children’s playsets. Petty crime had been on the increase in all areas. A plane crashed in the city and the place had fallen apart. How had they survived World War II?
The family photos in this room had been an ambitious attempt to generate a desirable heritage for the baby that would one day occupy the bleached white cot. She looked at her father; another dignified pose devoid of emotion. A mounted copy of Meat Loaf’s “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad,” autographed by Jim Steinman, hung beneath the photograph.
The brigadier had never been suspended. Nor had any other family members in a long line of decorated military powerhouses. It was probably for the best that her father wasn’t around to see her disgraced. She closed her eyes and his face floated before her. His silence. His disappointment. The words on the wall; the ones he’d once shouted about, pointed to. Duty. Responsibility. Honor. Norton had said her father would have been proud. She could only shrug it off; he never had been before.
Hanson’s heart sank. The phone vibrating in her hand displayed an undisclosed HQ number. Her thumb hovered over the ignore button. She’d had her fill of bad news, but her father’s watchwords tugged at her. She sighed and pressed accept.
“Hanson,” she muttered.
“Finally. I didn’t know what I was going to do if you didn’t pick up. Mel Chelsea, forensics, here. I’ve got you down on the file as working the crash case with the boy.”
“I was. Past tense.”
“Whatever, I need to tell somebody and you are the person. You want to know something interesting?”
“No.”
“I did the autopsy on the parents of the boy you rescued.”
“Why? Isn’t being crushed by a big piece of metal enough?”
“Well, if we sit around all day waiting for suspicious deaths, looking unproductive, people might get the wrong idea. So we explore and occasionally something unexpected pops up. Buzz yourself in when you get here.”
“I didn’t say—” Hanson started, but the line was dead. “—I’d come.” She stared
blankly at the phone. The woman had said “unexpected.”
Hanson glanced around and swiped her card over the security reader, watching the indicator switch from red to green, and hurried down into the HQ basement. She felt uneasy about being back in headquarters after being dumped from her case, and kept her head down as she made her way through the corridors. The rooms flicked past in a monochromatic mural as she approached her destination.
A stout woman wrapped in the familiar white-and-blue protective smock was visible through the glass inset in the thick wooden door. Hanson’s fingers tingled against the cold metal of the handle as she pushed through into the morgue. Her breathing tightened as the smell of death and cleaning chemicals mixed together. The woman glanced up from her exploratory work on the body on the table that had been butchered open. The various shades of red laid bare churned Hanson’s stomach.
The woman pulled down the mask to expose her mouth. “Hanson?”
Hanson nodded.
The woman’s smock was smeared with blood, handprints spread around her waist. Recessed strip lighting flickered. Several bodies lay on metal tables covered with sheets. The room was metallic, brittle, and impersonal. Death was always personal, Hanson believed, affecting a cluster of individuals emotionally. But this colorless room, with its menacing tools of the trade and spotless surfaces, sucked all humanity out of the job.
“I’m Mel Chelsea.” She took in Hanson’s pale face. “You don’t look well.”
“The clinical nature of pulling apart the dead disturbs me.”
Chelsea looked around and shrugged. “Each to their own.”
The lights flickered once more, making Hanson flinch.
Chelsea sighed. “Daniel!” She glanced out into the filing area. “Where is that idiot? See to the lights,” she shouted. Her voice echoed eerily around the room.
She turned back to Hanson. “At first I wasn’t sure why you sent the bodies here, but I’m glad—”
“Wait, I didn’t authorize this.”
“Just as well. Can’t let a simple thing like procedure get in the way of investigation, or we’d never get anything done. Come and tell me what you see.”
She dragged Hanson over to two pitifully small clumped objects beneath the bleak, bloodstained death sheets. Chelsea slipped the covers away, revealing the remains of the two bodies lying twisted and broken on the cold steel benches. They were barely recognizable as human, let alone the boy’s parents. The smell was repulsive.
