by Frank Tayell
“You knew I’d find nothing there?” Ruth asked.
“Yes,” Mitchell said. “I went there myself on three occasions. The first was about a week after Maggie brought you back to Twynham. I went looking for clues as to who you might be. About two years after that, I went back again. It was about the same time of year, too, just after your birthday. Riley and I came over, do you remember? We brought a biscuit-cake. It was Riley’s idea.”
“I… not really. Sort of. That was Riley? She was wearing a green frock?”
“That was her dress phase. It didn’t last long. She’d been stealing them from the National Store. Discovering that was what made me realise I had to spend more time with her, and that I needed to teach her how to be a good copper because she was a terrible thief.”
“Ah.” Ruth rolled the memory over in her mind. Now that Mitchell had given her a few details, they slotted into the snapshot she had, and she was no longer sure what was memory and what was overlay. “When was the third time? That you went back to the refugee camp, I mean?”
“That was about two years ago. I was tracking a serial killer. Caught him just outside of Versailles. France was different, then. There were a few farms. There was even a vineyard outside of Rouen. I’ll admit that I delayed my return to spend a couple of nights there. The wine was interesting, though I don’t have much to compare it to. But it was a nice setting, and there was a—” He stopped, and smiled. “There was a moment stolen in time,” he said. “A few hours when I wasn’t a police officer, but I was still a father, and I had to return. I was in a maudlin mood when I got back to Britain, thinking of what might have been. I took a detour past the refugee camp to remind myself of what had been, and the task that is before all of us. It was hard to find. Nature had reclaimed the site. I imagine it hasn’t changed much in the last two years.”
“No, it’s pretty overgrown.”
“No memories?” he asked.
“No, not really. I can sort of remember running through the tents. Before that, there’s something about a bridge. I don’t remember much else.”
“Then it’s best to let the memory be,” Mitchell said. “The past is over. Adamovitch is the last piece of this puzzle. In a few weeks it’ll be a new year and a time for new beginnings for all of us.”
“Hmm. Maybe. I hope so.” She took another bite of the pasty. “Did you go back to the vineyard?”
“I did,” he said. “Before you joined the force and we opened the Serious Crimes Unit. I arrived too late. They’d burned it down, massacred everyone inside. I don’t know if it was one of the groups that’s now in Calais. It really doesn’t matter.”
Ruth had many more questions, but Mitchell’s expression had grown dark. Now wasn’t the time. She finished the pasty, and watched the fields roll by until the rocking motion of the train put her to sleep.
The jolting of the carriage woke her from it. She sat bolt upright. Her hand fell to her holster.
“Relax,” Mitchell said. “We’re home. In Twynham,” he added.
“Oh. Right.” She wiped sleep from her eyes. “What now?”
“We take the prisoners to Police House,” Mitchell said. “Then I’m off to see Atherton while you go to see Maggie. Riley’s got a sofa that’s not too uncomfortable. You can sleep there tonight. Maybe you can take her for a walk tomorrow. She’s not getting out of the house enough.”
Ruth stood, grabbed her bag, and they made their way through to the compartment with the cells. The officers of the railway police already had the two prisoners in wrist and ankle chains.
“I think his name’s Yanuck,” the corporal said. “We heard them talking.”
“Yanuck?” Mitchell said turning to the large man. “Mr Yanuck, nice to meet you. We have Longfield’s records at Police House. They are surprisingly detailed. We’ll find you in them. This is your chance to confess. If you do, you might save your neck.”
Yanuck’s eyes flickered towards Adamovitch. The butler scowled.
Mitchell smiled. “All right lads, here’s how it’s going to go. We’re going to take you to Police House. You’ll be booked for murder, smuggling, and conspiring to foment rebellion. Treason will probably be added to the charges, but it’s the murder of Mr Wilson that means you’ll swing. We have the painting, after all. When the jury sees that, you’ll be convicted. Your only chance is to answer our questions about Longfield and that ammunition you had. And, of course, we only need one of you. Think on that as we walk to the station, because when we get there, we’ll want some answers.”
The corporal opened the door, and jumped down to the platform.
“Stand back,” she called to the railway workers. “Stand back, prisoners coming through!”
Yanuck was pushed forward into the doorway. And then, his head exploded.
The man collapsed as Mitchell pushed Ruth back. The captain dived forward, knocking Adamovitch from his feet even as Yanuck’s body fell down to the platform where screaming railway workers ran away in panic.
Ruth pushed herself to her knees and drew her revolver. When she got to the doorway, she could see nothing but the smuggler’s corpse and people running away in scared confusion.
Chapter 10 - Number 10
Twynham
“A sniper? This is a bad business,” Prime Minister Atherton said. “A bad business, indeed. Do you have any conclusions?”
“I have evidence,” Mitchell said. “And that’s leading me toward a hypothesis.”
“Please, Mitchell, I’m not in the mood,” Atherton said. “And this really isn’t the time.”
Though she was standing ramrod-straight, Ruth’s eyes darted between Mitchell and the prime minister, trying to read into the subtext of their words. It was three hours since the shooting. The railway police, supplemented by a detachment of Marines, had searched the platforms’ roofs and the top of the warehouses that lined that section of track. Nothing had been found during that preliminary investigation. The Marines had escorted Adamovitch to the courthouse jail, leaving Ruth and Mitchell to report in person to the PM. He had been in his study, working. The room was so dimly lit Ruth couldn’t read any of the words on the papers and reports covering the ancient oak desk, though she thought the annotated map was one of France.
“It was the work of a professional,” Mitchell said. “There was one shot, fired from at least three hundred yards, but probably further. The shot was fired the moment that Yanuck appeared in the doorway. The killer had to have known that Yanuck was on the train, but there was no way to know which platform we’d arrive at, and so which side of the train Yanuck would emerge from. About five minutes elapsed between the train arriving and the shot, so there wasn’t much time to prepare. Hence, this was done by a professional.”
“A message was sent from Dover?” Atherton asked. “And that message warned the sniper that Yanuck was on the train?”
“It had to be, yes, sir. From that, we know that Yanuck was the target,” Mitchell said. “To make that shot, our sniper has to be good. Good enough that, if they’d waited until both Yanuck and Adamovitch had alighted from the train, they could have shot both of them.”
“So the sniper works with or for Adamovitch,” Atherton said. “Or knows that Adamovitch wouldn’t talk. Does this mean Yanuck was the weak link? Who was he, anyway?”
“A smuggler,” Mitchell said. “Possibly smuggling ammunition for Kalashnikovs.”
“Two thousand rounds,” Atherton said, he gestured at the papers on his desk. “Your report said as much. You don’t know anything more?”
“Other than his name, not much,” Mitchell said. “But I have a theory. At first, I thought Adamovitch was trying to get out of Britain. I was wrong. I think he planned to take over Longfield’s operation. That shipment of ammunition had to be for her, part of her scheme to sow division and discord prior to the election. Whether Adamovitch intended to continue with that plan, or had come up with a new one, there’s only one use to which those bullets could be put. My theory i
s that he went to Dover to win those smugglers over to his cause.”
“Two thousand rounds is enough to start a civil war,” Atherton said, “but it is not enough to win it.” He picked up a sheet of paper. “Do you think there’s a connection with the criminals in Calais?”
“Possibly,” Mitchell said.
“They are the ones who would gain from chaos on the streets of Britain. Every Marine deployed guarding a grain silo or power station is one that can’t fight in France.”
“Um…” Ruth murmured.
“Yes?” Atherton asked. “You have something to add.”
“Well… um…” Ruth swallowed. “It’s that the attack on Calais was on the fifth, wasn’t it? The fifth of November, and wasn’t that the date Ned Ludd thought something big was going to happen. I mean, we thought that Ludd was just a dupe, a decoy, but maybe getting us to think that was part of Emmitt’s plan.”
Atherton glanced at Mitchell, and raised an eyebrow. Mitchell shrugged.
“Thank you, Constable,” Atherton said. “We were aware of that, and I believe you are correct. The attack on Calais was arranged by Longfield, or by Emmitt, and scheduled for the fifth. Either they were planning something else for that night, or they wanted us to think they were. Regardless, their goal in choosing that particular date was to maximise terror. Unfortunately, knowing that doesn’t help us. It took months for those bandits to reach Calais. The assault must have been arranged earlier this year if not before, and once arranged, it would have been impossible to call off.”
“Oh. Right. Sorry,” Ruth murmured.
“Was there anything else you wish to add?”
“Well, it’s… it’s just that I knew Adams. I mean Adamovitch. I mean… I don’t mean I knew him,” she added hurriedly. “It’s just… um…”
Atherton sighed. “Yes, you knew Simon Longfield in the academy. I have read your file.”
Ruth blinked. She hadn’t realised that she had a file. “Adamovitch wasn’t important,” she said. “He oversaw people setting the tables for dinner, and made sure that the hunters kept the pantry full. I asked Simon what all the people working there did, you see. Adamovitch wouldn’t have had much contact with Mrs Longfield. He spent most of his days polishing the silverware and dusting the plates. I don’t think Mrs Longfield would have told him anything, so whatever he knows, he must have learned it by stealing a look at files and papers.”
“Unfortunately that might include the design of the ships laying siege to Calais,” Atherton said. “They are all of the new Nile Class. Longfield was involved in the board that designed them. As we are the sole sea-power, armour was reduced in favour of speed. There are weaknesses that could be exploited.”
“But Adamovitch has been caught,” Mitchell said.
“Indeed,” Atherton said. He turned back to Ruth. “What is your impression of Dover, Constable?”
“Um… it’s nice, I suppose. Like a small version of Twynham,” Ruth said, confused by the apparent change of topic.
“It will not be secure until Calais is in friendly hands,” Atherton said. “Calais won’t be secure until we have outposts in Dunkirk, Boulogne-sur-Mer, Bethune.” He drew a semi-circle with his finger on the map, then he drew a wider semi-circle. “To secure those, we must hold Ostend, Lille, Amiens, and Dieppe. Then, France, Belgium, The Netherlands.” He pointed at the map. “Spain. Portugal. Germany. Europe. The World. The barbarians have held sway too long. To destroy them, we risk consuming all that we have created, and all that we will create for generations to come. Yet, if we stand idly by, they will still come. We can destroy the Channel Tunnel. We can isolate ourselves, protect ourselves with the Navy, but the pirates will take root. They will kill, convert, or co-opt the few survivors unfortunate enough not to have made it to this island refuge. The darkness will grow building in strength until, like a tidal wave, it will sweep over us. You won’t have heard what happened in Athens?”
“No, sir,” Ruth said.
“Few have. Five hundred souls were impaled alive in the ruins of the Parthenon. And do you know who they were, what they did to deserve such treatment? They were archaeologists, looking to preserve the old ruins against a time when civilisation might once again wish to look upon where it began. Find this sniper, Mitchell.”
“Yes, sir,” Mitchell said.
As she turned around, Ruth realised there were two portraits, one either side of the door. Both were men, one was balding with a moustache, dressed in a jacket, tie, and waistcoat. The other wore the clothes of two centuries before. She wasn’t sure who the men were, but they were positioned to face Atherton, almost as if they were judging him.
“Well, how are we going to do that?” Ruth said when they were outside. There were more Marines on duty, with two on the rooftop opposite. “Find the sniper, I mean.”
“We look for the evidence,” Mitchell said. “You understand what the prime minister was saying?”
“That we have to find the shooter,” Ruth said.
“No,” Mitchell said. “He was saying that the war has begun. It was something his predecessor tried to avoid, but perhaps we can’t any longer. Calais is just the beginning, but this particular struggle won’t end in my lifetime, maybe not in yours. Yes, be glad you’re a copper, but remember that police aren’t soldiers.” He shivered. “But we are coppers, and this is our case. Where would you look for the sniper?”
“In Dover,” Ruth said. “Someone sent that message warning the sniper that Yanuck was on the train. If we find out who that was, then we’ll know who we’re chasing. I’ll go back to the station and get the next train to Dover.”
“No, you won’t,” Mitchell said. “You’ll go and see your mother and get some sleep. I’ll send a message to Kettering and ask her to find who sent the telegram from Dover. You can go back in the morning. Mid-morning.”
“You’re trying to keep me out of the way again,” Ruth said.
Mitchell didn’t reply.
Chapter 11 - Homeless at Home
Twynham
For as long as Ruth could properly remember until two days before she’d left for Dover, she and Maggie had lived in a large house on the outskirts of Twynham. The downstairs had been a schoolroom for children from the neighbouring refugee resettlement centre, and Maggie had been their teacher. Maggie had viewed the centre as counterproductive because few children stayed there more than a few weeks, and so had petitioned to have it shut it down. Surprisingly, the government had listened. Notification of the closure had arrived shortly before Riley had been shot, Emmitt had been caught, and Ruth had been transferred to Dover. As Maggie was out of a job, and as Riley required home-care in order to be discharged from the hospital, Maggie had moved into the sergeant’s home.
The small cottage had been empty when Henry Mitchell had claimed it. He’d moved out a few years ago to give his adoptive daughter space. Ruth had visited the cottage a few times before she’d left for Dover, and not much had changed in the weeks since. The leaves had been raked, the roses cut back, and the gutters cleared. The only significant difference was a pig lying half-asleep inside a sty where the lawn had previously been.
“I know you,” Ruth said. The porker gave her a baleful glare. “You were the one we had at the old house. Then there will be bacon at Christmas.” Although Ruth wasn’t sure she would be coming back to Twynham for it. She lingered by the sty, putting off the moment when she’d have to go inside.
There was plenty of light to see the pig. Mitchell had put the house on the electricity grid. Actually, Ruth suspected it was Isaac who’d done it, and that Mitchell had chosen the cottage because it was close to the substation.
Ruth rang the doorbell. A familiar American East-Coast accent tempered with two decades living in Twynham muttered a litany that grew in volume as it approached.
The door opened. “Ruth!” Maggie said, taking a step back in surprise. “What are you doing back?”
“Hi, Mum,” Ruth said. “It’s a long story.”
“Is that Ruth?” Riley called. There was a clatter and then a thump as the sergeant rolled her wheelchair into the living room doorway before she managed to get it through to the hall. During the arrest of Mrs Longfield, Riley had taken a shotgun blast to the chest. A bulletproof vest had saved her life, but not her mobility. Ruth still wasn’t sure whether the sergeant would ever recover full use of her legs.
“Hi, Sarge,” Ruth said. “How are you feeling?”
“Is that blood on your uniform?” Riley asked.
“It’s not mine,” Ruth said.
“Then whose is it?” Maggie asked.
“Like I said, it’s a long story.”
“Shot in the train station?” Riley asked when Ruth had finished. “The telegraph office is key. Find the message, find the messenger, and then you’ll find the sniper.”
“That’s what I said, and I said that I should go back to Dover to find who sent it,” Ruth said. “But Mister Mitchell has benched me. I’m to go back tomorrow, but not even on the first train.”
Riley smiled. “We don’t need to go to Dover to find out who the message was for,” she said. “We’ll go to the telegraph office in the morning, find out what messages came from Dover and when they arrived. That will get us a description of the shooter.”
“And I’m sure that’s what Henry is doing right now,” Maggie said. “There’s no need for either of you to get involved in this.”
“We are involved,” Riley said. “We’re police.”
Maggie frowned, but didn’t argue. That, Ruth thought, was a sign of growth.
As she was currently confined to the wheelchair, the dining room had been converted into Riley’s bedroom. Maggie had taken Riley’s old room. The other, smaller, bedroom was full of Mitchell’s books and boxes. Ruth wasn’t sure if he would go back to the room he had in a pub on the other side of town, or if he would sleep in the house, so she took the sofa.
