by Oisin McGann
“Jesus, she can dance too!” Nica shouted. “George, you’re a goddamn star!”
Manikin didn’t reply, just shrugging and forcing a smile as she squeezed the throbbing joints. Coda had crushed that finger deliberately, sending her a very clear message. One of Move-Easy’s apes had broken that finger a year ago—the last time she and FX had failed to make a payment.
The night wore on, and Manikin stayed sober as the others got drunk, though she maintained the appearance of drinking as much as they did. As their conversation grew more manic and repetitive, Nica became more withdrawn, resisting the attempts of her friends to include her in the banter. At one point, she got up and wandered off. Manikin gave it a few minutes and then pretended to get up and go to the toilet, taking her bag with her. Casting her eyes around, she found the other girl sitting in a dark corner, next to a pile of coats. Nica had her phone out, and she was looking through some photographs. Manikin sat down beside her, offering Nica a swig from her bottle, but Nica shook her head.
“Sorry, you want to be on your own?” Manikin asked her.
Nica shrugged and shook her head.
“Just don’t feel like talking. You can sit where you like.”
“That’s OK,” Manikin said. “I get that sometimes.”
She let her bag fall to the floor, and it tipped over on its side, spilling some of its contents. It was a move she’d practiced to ensure it would fall the right way. Her purse ended up on the floor, along with a lip gloss, some keys and a book. Manikin gave Nica a furtive look, and hurriedly shoved the objects back into her bag.
“Hey, I saw that!” Nica lifted her head, giving her new friend a sly smile.
“What?”
“Don’t act the innocent—I saw the book. Come on, let’s have a look.”
Manikin checked that nobody else around them was looking, and took the book from her bag, slipping it discreetly into Nica’s hand. “Just keep your voice down, OK?” Manikin said into her ear.
“Are you kidding? Who’s going to hear us in this racket?”
It was a comic-book edition of Fahrenheit 451, a novel about a society that burned books, where anyone found in the possession of one could be imprisoned in a mental hospital, or have mechanical hounds sent out to hunt and kill them if they ran. Fahrenheit 451 was the kind of book that could get you all the wrong kind of attention from WatchWorld.
“It’s in really good nick,” Nica said.
“It’s my brother’s. He’s completely anal about looking after his comics.”
“I could get a lot of money for that if you wanted to sell it.”
“Dunno, maybe. I do a bit of dealing myself,” Manikin said, taking the book and putting it back in her bag. “Ask me another time—let’s see if we can do a bit of business, yeah?”
Feeling that she had earned a bit more of Nica’s trust, she took a peek at the girl’s phone. The screen showed a picture of Watson Brundle.
“He looks a bit like you,” Manikin observed. “That your dad?”
“Yeah,” Nica said. She brushed her thumb across the screen, the movement sliding another photo across. “He died this week.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry. I lost my dad years ago. There’s nothing anybody can say, is there? It all just sounds like crap.”
Nica nodded. She slid another picture of her father across, and another. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t try to hide the photos from Manikin either. It was as if she wanted to show Manikin her father: who he was, what he was like.
“They say his death was an accident,” Nica sniffed. “But I don’t believe it for a second. He … he got mixed up with some nasty people. Nobody else … nobody else knew about it, but I knew. He was terrified. There’s no way he died the way they say.”
Manikin was about to try and prompt her for more on her father’s death, but then frowned as a new photo crossed onto the screen.
“I think I’ve seen that guy before,” she said in an offhand way, pointing at the picture. “Who is he?”
In the foreground, Watson Brundle was holding up one of those Petri dishes—the shallow, flat-bottomed containers used for growing bacteria in a lab. There was a proud smile on his face. Behind him, a young man was walking through a door, his face just visible over Brundle’s shoulder.
“Oh, that’s nobody,” Nica muttered. “Just some guy who lived in Dad’s building, helped him out sometimes. His name’s Chuck. Chuck Farley.”
CHAPTER 24
EVERY SYSTEM CAN BE PLAYED
NIMMO FOUND HE often felt at ease perched at a height somewhere, with a clear view around him. When he needed some peace and quiet to think things through, he sought these places but. It was an instinct that clashed with his professional need to be inconspicuous. So it came as some surprise to Scope to find him sitting on the windowsill of a castle tower in the warehouse in Brill Alley, his feet dangling about ten meters above the floor of the huge room. She didn’t know if the set had ever been used in a film, but Nimmo resembled some vagabond who had climbed the tower looking for the princess he loved, and discovered her missing.
“Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!” Scope called up.
Nimmo gave a reluctant smile, gestured to his close-cut scalp and shrugged an apology.
“How about you come down then?” Scope asked. “Manikin’s up. Either she’s hung over, or something’s really pissed her off. Whatever it is, she’s in a rotten mood.”
“How can you even tell?” Nimmo muttered, rolling back through the window.
Manikin had come back late, and though they were all still up, she had insisted on going to bed before sharing anything that she had learned. She had been worked up about something, but not even FX could say why. This was exactly the kind of thing that caused Nimmo to work alone most of the time. He had grown up working with adults, and had little time for other kids, particularly moody teenagers.
He climbed down the scaffolding that made up the back of the fake stone tower, and followed Scope back to the kitchen, where Manikin and FX were sitting at the table, steaming mugs of coffee set in front of them. Manikin was looking tired but alert, dressed in a T-shirt and jeans, with her dark hair tied up at the back. She lifted her head to regard the other pair as they walked in, but didn’t greet Nimmo. FX had his laptop hooked up to a large screen on the wall, so that they could all see what he had up. It was a selection of the photos, video files and documents they had put together on Veronica so far.
Scope sat down, but Nimmo stayed standing by the door, leaning back against the frame with his arms folded.
“Awright,” said FX. “That bit of video me an’ Scope got of Cronenberg in that building we checked out? I ran it through some editing software and cleaned up the sound. Here’s the full recording.”
He hit a button on the keyboard and the sound of a Northern Irish voice could be heard, still distorted by the noise of wind across the microphone, but much more audible than they’d heard it before: “… that’s not whut he sayd,” the man’s voice could be heard saying. “He never sayd she didn’t have it. He just sayd it wuzn’t in hor apartment. Whut? I don’t know, you ask him, why don’t yeh? Huh? … Look, you can moan all yeh like. Vapor paid this numpty, and he wants what he paid for. He duzn’t give a damn about the cards. We do this right, those cards could go missing, know whut I mean? Performance-related bonus an’ all that … I don’t know, do I? But they’ve got tae be worth a hundred grand, maybe more. Brundle didn’t come cheap, I know that much. Vapor just wants his stuff, and he duzn’t—”
“And that’s where he spotted the camera,” FX told them. “Thanks to Scope, this guy now has a name—Paul Cronenberg, a dealer in bio-tech weapons. And he uses them, as well as selling them. And we know the man Nimmo ambushed in Veronica’s apartment is Frank Krieger.”
FX brought up the photo he had of the man driving the van, a long-faced black man with tightly clipped hair and a goatee.
“I was able to use face recognition software to do a
search on the mug of this other fella in the van. As if things weren’t difficult enough, we now have a new psycho to add into the mix. That right there is Harvey Benson, a.k.a. ‘Hector.’”
“Can’t be.” Nimmo shook his head. “He’s doing ten years in Belmarsh for assaulting a peeper. He worked for Tubby Reach as a hacker, but he’s a real nasty piece of work too. Good at making sneaky weapons. Anyway, he only went down last year. There’s no way he’s out.”
“Believe it,” FX said. “I checked up on him. Released on a technicality. New evidence discovered by WatchWorld themselves.”
“What new evidence?” Nimmo frowned. “He was caught by the peeper trying to hack into a WatchWorld surveillance post. He went nuts—did the guy serious damage before he was pulled off by two coppers. Put the peeper in hospital for a month. It was all recorded. The coppers were able to watch every thump and kick in slow-bloody-motion.”
“Yeah, well he still got off,” FX said. “Something about the peeper’s gear not being calibrated properly. Thing is, Frank Krieger was up on charges of manslaughter around the same time, and he got off for a similar reason. Cronenberg got out of his conviction too. This Vapor guy has to be doing this, and if he is, he’s really high up.”
“More like it’s the whole of WatchWorld that’s in on it,” Manikin muttered. “How could one guy play the system like that?”
“Because every system can be played,” Nimmo replied, with FX nodding in agreement. “So we’re up against a thief, a hacker and a bio-tech expert—each one with a history of violence. But how many more are there? It’s the ones we don’t know about who worry me most.”
“Yeah, like maybe this kid who was living on the same floor as Brundle,” Manikin said, glancing over at Nimmo. “He’s supposed to be some harmless homeless guy that Brundle took in, but nobody’s turned up anything on him. He might be working for Vapor … or even Move-Easy and Easy’s not telling us, or he could be a nobody who just took the box and ran. We don’t know.”
“Except he told the Safe-Guard about the murder as soon as he discovered it,” Scope said. “And he helped Brundle out when he was mugged.”
“Doesn’t mean anything,” Manikin snorted. “Saving him from the muggers could have been part of the plan, right, Nimmo?”
“Maybe,” Nimmo said carefully. “Did you learn anything from Veronica last night? We couldn’t hear much from your mike because of the music.”
“She had some interesting things to say.”
“You going to share them anytime soon?”
“I dunno. I dunno if I want to share anything with you.” Manikin leaned forward, holding him in a hostile stare. “I dunno if I want you in our home any more. Seein’ as the last guy who shared his home with you ended up dead. So, what have we learned, Chuck?”
Nimmo unfolded his arms and went to stand up straight. Even as he did so, he saw his own face come up onscreen, along with all the details of his life as Charles U. Farley.
“Give us one reason why I shouldn’t send this to Move-Easy right now, complete with your last known address,” FX said in a tight voice. “You working for Vapor too, Nimmo? Or maybe it’s Tubby Reach? Or are you just messin’ with us until you can get this box for yourself? It’s just that, if I remember right, the last guy who tried to con Move-Easy ended up in a cement mixer. And if he finds out that you’ve pulled a fast one on him, and if he even suspects we’re in on it, we’ll be rolling around in there with you.”
“They’re right, Nimmo,” Scope said. “You need to be straight with them. You owe them that much.”
“You mean you knew?” Manikin glared accusingly at her.
“I only found out Thursday afternoon—and don’t give me that look, Mani. You’re scanning our eyeballs on the sly, and God knows what else, so don’t go acting all offended. We’re not in a very trusting business here.”
Manikin snorted, but then turned back to Nimmo. FX and Scope also fixed their attention on him. Nimmo stared at them all, standing lightly on the balls of his feet as he weighed up his options. They weren’t an immediate threat to him, although he couldn’t be sure what security measures FX and Manikin had set up in here—ones he hadn’t spotted. He was confident he could get out of the building if he needed to. So there was no reason to give them anything. But if they did shop him to Move-Easy, he’d have to be gone from London by the end of the day, and he could never come back. That wasn’t the end of the world. He could work in other places. Maybe it would be better than trusting them—letting them any further into his life.
Except his business here wasn’t finished yet, and it would be a damn sight easier to get it finished if he could convince them to keep helping him. But it was asking a lot.
“All right,” he said uneasily. “Brundle was a decent guy; I don’t know if I could call him a friend—it wasn’t that straightforward. But he let me live in his place, no questions asked, and we talked sometimes and did each other the odd favor. I liked him, and I trusted him…up to a point. I know he was murdered, and I figured I owed it to him to find out who did it. When he realized the Safe-Guard was coming up to his lab that day, he gave the box to me to hide. At least, I assume it was the same box—I still haven’t looked inside.”
Nimmo didn’t mention that he had first hidden the case back in Brundle’s lab. He was still feeling ashamed of pulling that trick on his old landlord.
“I don’t know if he was killed for the box; it could just be a coincidence, but I doubt it. Yes, I’ve got the bloody thing, but I don’t want it. As far as I’m concerned, it belongs to Nica—unless it’s liable to just ruin her life. But I think it’s the key to finding out who killed Brundle, so nobody’s getting it until I figure that out. Not you, not Move-Easy, not Vapor and these fake WatchWorlders, whoever the hell they are. Not even Nica. Nobody.
“Now you can threaten me, set Easy’s apes on me, or you can even try and take me yourselves. But I’ve handled a lot tougher than you and bigger psychos than them and I’m still here. So the worst that’s going to happen to me is that I end up having to leave town. And that box will be coming with me. On the other hand, if you help me put together the rest of this story; help me figure out what happened to Brundle and why, I’ll hand that box over to whoever you like. Move-Easy never has to know. It’s up to you.”
There was a moment of silence while the others digested all of this. But it didn’t take long for Nimmo to have his answer.
“You want to get between Move-Easy and something he wants?” Manikin said in a bitter voice. “Have you forgotten who he is? I’ll tell you what: we’ll give you two hours before we hand over everything we know to the mass murderer we’re working for. That should be more than enough time for you to cop yourself on, or get your arse out of the city. It’s up to you.”
Nimmo looked for a reaction from FX and Scope, but their body language just backed up what Manikin had said. He was about to say something when a mobile sitting on the table began to ring. She looked at the screen:
“It’s Nica … Veronica. I gave her the number for this phone last night. We set it up just to take her calls.”
They all exchanged looks, but then she shrugged and took the call.
“Hello? Oh, hi, Nica! How’s it goin’? Yeah, my head’s bursting too. What bloody poison were we drinkin’ at the end there last night? What? … Jesus, really? Bloody hell. No, I’m not doing anything … Yeah … Yeah. Sure, of course. I can do that. OK, I’ll see you then.”
Manikin rang off, and there was a troubled expression on her face as she looked at her phone for a few seconds before saying anything.
“Nica went home on her own last night. She had a fight with her friends—just a stupid drunken row. I stayed out of it. Turns out she was attacked on her way home. Again. The mugger took her bag. Again.” Manikin gave a humorless chuckle, looking over at her brother. “She said it wasn’t the same guy as last time. And obviously he didn’t get her phone.
“But she did have a copy of Animal Farm
in her bag—you know, the George Orwell book? Probably wanted to impress her mates. It was her mother’s most valuable book, and she’s worried sick that her mum’s going to find out she took it. I let her know last night that I did a bit of book dealing, so she’s just asked me if I could get hold of another copy. I said I’d meet up with her and see what I could do.”
“She’s a quick bonder, isn’t she?” FX commented.
“Shut up, this is serious,” Manikin sighed. “This doesn’t fit. Move-Easy’s guys would have taken her, not her bag.”
“And Vapor’s lot wouldn’t have to mug her,” Nimmo said. “They’re smart operators; she wouldn’t see them unless they wanted her to. And if they were sending her a warning for some reason, they’d do it so that she got the message. Maybe it was just dumb luck she got mugged twice.”
“Right. Anybody believe that?” Scope asked. Nobody did. FX was already on his laptop, bringing up the control windows for the bugs they had planted on Nica.
“The bugs in her bag were only short range,” he said. “But I’ve set them up to piggy-back on the mobile phone network, using the same kind of roaming signal that a mobile uses—”
“Spare us the nerdisms. Can you find the bloody thing?” Manikin snapped at him.
FX glowered back at her. “It was only meant to help us tail her, or record her voice, or let us listen in when we were nearby,” he said sullenly. “The signal’s weak, but I can show the path it’s taken since it was stolen and, if the bag’s close enough to two or more antenna towers, I can locate it to within a few meters.”
