by Frank Tayell
“The day after the attack on Calais?” Ruth asked.
“Right. They were going to open a shop here, and I think we can guess why they didn’t. The ground-floor room has been rented by a naval officer who wanted a billet on shore for entertaining. As his ship set off for Africa a week ago, he won’t make much of a witness, at least, not to this crime. I think he’ll be persuaded to take the stand against Mrs Dempsey just as soon as I’ve worked out what to charge her with. As to Mr Wilson, though, no one heard or saw anything yesterday. Around here, they make a point of not seeing things.”
“What do we do now?” Ruth asked.
“You tell me,” Kettering said.
“Well, Mrs Dempsey was alerted that something was wrong by Mr Wilson’s employer. I suppose we go there.”
“No,” Kettering said. “First we send word to the castle and find out if the Navy want to take over. I’m sure they can find a reason to claim jurisdiction. On the off-chance they don’t, tomorrow will be a long day, so go home and get some sleep.”
The police station was dark, cold, and haunted by the ghosts of old prisoners. On every previous night, that had made Ruth hurry upstairs and shut the door to the apartment. After the squalor of Mr Wilson’s home, and knowing that the rest of the houses on that street would be much the same, she saw her accommodation with a clearer eye.
The old police station had burned down during the chaotic three days before the nuclear bombs had brought an end to the AIs and to the old civilisation. The building in which the police were now housed had been a provincial bank before the Blackout. The strong room had become the cells. The offices upstairs had become a small apartment. Ruth’s bedroom was smaller than Mr Wilson’s room, but it was just a bedroom. It had a table as well as the bed, but along the corridor was a small kitchen, complete with a sofa and a patched leather chair. At the other end of the corridor was a locker-room with a gravity-fed shower and two separate toilet cubicles. It wasn’t as spacious as Ruth’s old house on the edge of the refugee camp where she’d grown up, but it was pleasant. Homely, though not quite a home, because Kettering lived with her family in a house three doors down. There were throw pillows on the sofa, a rug on the floor, and four framed illustrations that had been rescued from a battered copy of The Final Problem. A teapot and almost-matching cups and saucers were on the shelves, though pride of place went to the mug with the hand-painted message World’s Greatest Detective. That had been a gift to Kettering from one of her children. The sergeant had been Dover’s police officer for nineteen years. During that time, the city had gone through four mayors, two admirals, and a dozen constables, but Elspeth Kettering had remained the one constant. The apartment had become Kettering’s office so as to keep her work from spilling over into her real life. Ruth appreciated those homely touches. It helped remind her that though the rooms were above a police station, there was more to life than crime.
“The only downside is that there’s no kettle,” she said.
There was a stove. She struck a match, and held it to the kindling, wistfully remembering the little cabin that the Serious Crimes Unit had occupied in the yard of Police House in Twynham. Mister Mitchell had wired an illicit plug that powered an electric kettle. That had kept them in as much hot water as they could ever need. That memory brought back others, of times with Maggie in their home on the edge of the resettlement camp, of her childhood when everything had seemed so much simpler. Join the police force and see some of the world, that had been her plan. Well, she’d joined the force, and she’d travelled far from Twynham, and finally realised that, though her surroundings might change, she wouldn’t.
Searching for the Folkestone refugee camp had been a mistake, yet it was one that she’d had to make. Maggie had found Ruth there, wandering between the tents, able to speak only one word of English: five. Maggie had adopted her, and Ruth hadn’t thought much about the camp since, not until she had been leaving Twynham. She’d asked Maggie where the camp had been. Folkestone was only a few miles from Dover, and the camp only a few miles further than that, close to the garrisoned entrance to the Channel Tunnel. On her first free day, Ruth had gone to see it for herself, but there was nothing left of the camp. Two giant cairns stood either side of a field that had become the mass grave for those who’d died. Moss and ivy were now intertwined around the small plaque, and the only words still readable were ‘lest we forget’.
Ruth shivered at the memory, and took out the tablet, swiping through the photographs she’d taken of Mr Wilson’s room.
“It really wasn’t a great way to live,” she said, speaking aloud to drown out the grim memory. “But you were a good painter, so why did you choose to live there? Was it for the daylight, or was it that you really didn’t care where you laid your head?” She settled on the picture of the family without faces. “That’s it, isn’t it? You just didn’t care.”
She set the tablet on the table, and while she waited for the fire to take, she sketched the crime scene.
Chapter 4 - Bacon
11th November, Dover
“Only three arrests last night,” Ruth said, putting the charge sheet down in front of the judge. “All drunk and disorderly with criminal damage. One took the fine, one took enlistment, the other’s pleading not guilty. Or he was, half an hour ago. He might change his tune when he sobers up.”
That was the disadvantage of living above the police station. Each morning, she was woken by the military police with the charge sheets of the previous night’s civilian arrests.
“Gruel,” Judge Clancy Beauregard said. “These are the depths to which I have sunk, gruel. Unsalted, unsweetened, unspiced. As my meal, so is my life.”
Ruth hadn’t been there to see the judge’s fall from grace, but she’d read about it in the newspaper. Everyone had, and not just in Britain. The story had even been reprinted in the paper in Maine. Before the Blackout, Beauregard had been a lawyer in Florida. He was one of the many cruise ship passengers miraculously lucky to run ashore on the southern English coast. Through charm as much as diligent application of their post-apocalyptic law, he’d risen through the ranks of the judiciary to become the senior justice in Dover.
Two months ago, Beauregard’s wife of eight years had demanded a divorce. She’d done it halfway through an opera being performed by the Royal Navy’s dramatic society, and in the presence of the Admiral of the Fleet. She’d demanded it so loudly the performance had stopped. In a way, that was a blessing, as the judge had then had a heart attack. Quick intervention by a naval surgeon had saved his life, but he was now single and on a very restricted diet.
“Chin up, sir,” Ruth said. “I heard that there’s going to be some nutmeg in the shops for Christmas. Not the real thing, I guess, but something from the chemical works in Twynham. Still, it’ll make a change.”
The judge turned a baleful eye on Ruth. She retreated to Kettering’s table.
“I wouldn’t want to be in his courtroom this morning,” Ruth said, though quietly enough that she wouldn’t be overheard. “Sleep well?”
“Hardly at all,” Kettering said. “I’ve ordered for you.”
“Porridge?”
“What else? The Navy don’t want this case.”
“They don’t?” Ruth asked.
“The victim’s employers have a Navy contract, so the military could claim jurisdiction if they wanted. It’s Calais.” Kettering leaned forward. “They brought another eight bodies back last night. That makes twenty-nine dead in the last ten days, plus another thirty-three in that first assault. I don’t know how many have been injured, but nor do I know how many of the pirates are left. They sent more Marines to Calais this morning, so it has to be a good number.” She leaned back. “That makes it our case, at least for now. I went to Mr Wilson’s place of employment last night.”
“They were open?” Ruth asked.
“Not for customers, but they offer a twenty-four-hour repair-or-replace service. That’s how Mr Wilson earned his crust. Apparently he
was a dab hand with a soldering iron. Pan, pot, or mangle, he could affix a new handle twice as fast as anyone else.”
“Ah.” Ruth frowned. “He can’t have earned much, then. The National Store sells old-world frying pans for a pittance.”
“Which not everyone can afford,” Kettering said. “Besides, that was the problem with the old world. We were too busy throwing out that which could be repaired. But you have a point, Mr Wilson didn’t earn very much. Certainly not as much as he could have as a painter.”
“Do you think the motive for his murder is workplace jealousy?” Ruth asked.
“It’s unlikely,” Kettering said. “Everyone who was there seemed upset at the news. Wilson had been working there since a few years after the Blackout, but he kept to himself. He’d show his face at company socials, but would leave as soon as it was polite. His work with a soldering iron wasn’t his only source of income. He sold a few of his paintings to his co-workers. By all accounts, he earned more than he needed for that cheap room.”
“So what did he spend his money on?”
“Trackers and private detectives,” Kettering said. “It’s a sad story, but which of them aren’t? He and his family were on a car ferry, on their way back from Calais when the Blackout occurred. The AIs hacked into the ship’s system and opened the cargo doors. Wilson got his wife and two children onto a lifeboat. There was no room for him. When the ship sank, he ended up in the sea. Mr Wilson was saved by a fishing boat, and was brought here to Dover. The lifeboat never made it to shore. A month later, as he was walking the cliffs, he saw the lifeboat that his wife and kids were in. No sign of them, of course. He spent his entire life since looking for them. If you ask me, I’d say that lifeboat he found wasn’t the one his family had taken. It probably wasn’t even from the same ship. The man just didn’t want to let go.”
“That is sad,” Ruth said. “And he’s worked at Sprocket and Sprung ever since?”
“More or less,” Kettering said. “Sometimes he would disappear for a day or a month, chasing some impossible lead in Scotland or Wales. Painting was Mr Watanabe’s idea. It was something he suggested to Wilson about ten years ago, something to take his mind off his family. It didn’t work, but it turns out Wilson was as good with a brush as he was with a soldering iron.”
“Who’s Mr Watanabe?”
“One of the co-founders of Sprocket and Sprung,” Kettering said. “There are two, Mr Watanabe and Mrs Illyakov. It was Mr Watanabe’s sixty-fifth birthday two weeks ago. Mr Wilson painted him a seascape of eleventh-century Japanese fishermen.”
“He finished the painting two weeks ago?” Ruth asked.
“He gave it to Mr Watanabe two weeks ago,” Kettering said. “He must have finished it some time before then.”
“Then he must have been working on something new,” Ruth said.
“More than that, he’d switched shifts,” Kettering said. “Mr Wilson wanted to catch the dawn light for his current work, so didn’t come into work until two p.m.”
“Then if he was shot as he was getting ready for work, it was around lunchtime?” Ruth said.
“Yep,” Kettering said. “The people he worked with knew that, and if one of them wanted to shoot him, I’m sure they’d have done it somewhere more secluded, like wherever he was painting this picture. Not in a residential street in the middle of the day.”
“Then it was probably someone who didn’t think he’d be at home?” Ruth asked.
“I’m not sure,” Kettering said. “The murderer didn’t know whether the man was right or left-handed, so no time was spent planning the crime. It’s possible that they followed Mr Wilson home, heard the roar from the firing range, and decided to take advantage of it to cover the sound of the fatal shot. On the other hand, they might have planned to commit the crime there because of the firing range. There’s too little evidence to tell.”
“But you have a theory?”
The waiter walked over, bringing them their breakfast. He placed a bowl of steaming porridge in front of Ruth, and a paper-wrapped package in front of Kettering.
“What’s that?” Ruth asked, though she could guess from the smell.
“My lunch,” Kettering said.
“That’s bacon,” Ruth said a little too loudly. The judge looked up, his nostrils flaring.
Kettering placed a proprietorial hand on the packet.
“I haven’t had bacon since… since last Christmas, I think,” Ruth said. “We were fattening one in Twynham at the refugee centre, but that was closed and Mum moved out just before I was transferred here. I don’t know what happened to the pig, but I doubt I’ll see a slice of it.”
“Then I know what to give you as a present this year,” Kettering said.
“Why is it your lunch?” Ruth asked. “More importantly, why can’t I have one?”
“Because I was in the club that was fattening the pig,” Kettering said. “One pound a month this has cost me. A joint for Christmas Day, some rashers, and a few chops to tide me over until then. You’re welcome to share the joint, but not the bacon. And not a word about it to my girls. There’s a reason they cooked it for me here. As to why it’s my lunch, speaking to his employers did give me one solid lead. Last week, Mr Wilson went to Hastings. He’d seen an article in an old copy of the newspaper about two cousins. One worked in a Welsh mine, the other was an orderly at the hospital in Hastings. Do you know about the hospital? It’s an odd place. You know how a lot of cruise ships came ashore just after the Blackout.”
“With mostly Americans on board, like the judge?”
“Precisely. A cruise was an expensive holiday. The kind of thing you’d have to earn serious money to afford. Like money from being a lawyer, or a doctor. Those doctors all grouped together to set up a research hospital in Hastings where the old knowledge wouldn’t be lost. Anyway, these two cousins; both had thought the other had died in the Blackout until the miner was in an accident. She needed an operation on her spine, and the only place that could attempt it was in Hastings. That’s where she went, and thus the two cousins were reunited. Mr Wilson went to Hastings to see if his family were there.”
“Because of that article?” Ruth asked.
“Yes, he led a sad, small life. He painted. He worked. He slept, and desperately dreamed that his family were still alive. He didn’t socialise, not even with his colleagues though he’d known some of them for nearly two decades. He had no friends, and it doesn’t look as if the killer knew him. In which case, it’s most likely that he was killed because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. As he was in Hastings last week, I think that might be the place. There was some trouble with smugglers there a few years ago. Your Mister Mitchell was involved in that case. I’m going to see if someone has started that business up again.”
“I’ve never been to Hastings,” Ruth said.
“And you won’t be going there today,” Kettering said. “I’ll catch a train in an hour, and I’ll get the goods train back this evening. Speak to the coroner, and then go back to his employer. Get some formal statements written up. Ask about Hastings, but also about the trackers that Wilson employed to find his family. If I don’t find anything at the hospital, that might be our best lead. Perhaps one of these so-called detectives thought Wilson had more money than he did, and came to Dover to shake him down. Get some names.” Kettering picked up the brown paper package. “And eat your porridge before it gets hard.”
Chapter 5 - A Good Employee
Dover
“He was a good employee,” Mrs Illyakov said in a tone that suggested it was the highest honour she could bestow. “A good painter, too.”
“I can see you appreciated his artwork,” Ruth said. Illyakov’s office had nine paintings on the rear wall, positioned so that the person sitting behind the desk could view them.
Mrs Illyakov, the owner of Sprocket and Sprung, was five-foot-one, a few years past fifty, and had a thin, angular face. Her clothing was fashionable and cleverly tailored to make
her look petite, though there was a slight stretch to the fabric betraying broad shoulders and wide arms. There was no wedding ring on her finger, nor any trace of a spouse or family in the office, yet the sign on her door read ‘Mrs’. In fact, other than the paintings, there were no personal touches in Mrs Illyakov’s office at all. It was entirely functional, right down to the floor-to-ceiling glass door that gave her a view of the workshop.
“Did I appreciate his art? Yes and no,” Mrs Illyakov said. “Mr Wilson had a natural talent, but he didn’t know it, nor how accomplished he could become with further application. I purchased his paintings because someone had to give Noah the price for his paints. They were expensive. A lot were mixed for him personally. He would often abandon a picture because the sea wasn’t the correct shade of blue.”
Ruth stood, and walked over to the wall. The paintings were, again, all seascapes of one kind or another, though Dover’s white cliffs featured prominently in each.
“You bought them from him? For how much?” Ruth asked.
“That would depend on how much paint he needed,” Mrs Illyakov said. “Sometimes he’d give a picture to a colleague. Sometimes he would bring one in and leave it by the bin, there for anyone to take.” She gave an expansive shrug. “I’m not surprised he killed himself. He was holding onto his old life too tightly. He wouldn’t let go, so it was inevitable that, when he accepted his family were dead, he would decide to join them.”
Ruth nodded. She’d kept their supposition that Mr Wilson was murdered to herself. “What can you tell me about his family?”
“Nothing that I didn’t tell your sergeant,” she said. “They died during the Blackout. Noah refused to accept it.”
“Do you know what painting he was working on?” Ruth asked.
“It was a search for a new world,” Mrs Illyakov said. “That was all he’d say.”
“How long did it take him to complete a picture?” Ruth asked.
