The Viscount Connection

by Jessica London

  The street was dingy. In fact, Detective Chief Inspector Malcolm Pouchii hadn’t seen a street this bad for years. The houses slumped against each other, and rotting waste filtered in little rivulets either side of the main walkway. And all the politicians said they’d cleaned up Saliman’s slums.

  People crowded the sides as South Saliman Police constables attempted to cordon off the patch of road ahead. Not that there was much chance of that happening – the alleyway connected two slum streets – South Saliman’s Pauper’s Avenue, and West Saliman’s Cangoyan Road, both in the forth district. People’s houses craned their necks into the crime scene, and commuters – although Pouchii had no idea what they were commuting to; it wasn’t likely to be work, as most of the slums population was unemployed – busied themselves by badgering the police for passage though the road.

  Pouchii flashed up his pass to the constable putting up the yellow crime tape, and he was admitted instantly. He pocketed the pass again, and crossed to a series of photographers and forensic scientists flocking round a heap in the road. The stench was eye watering.

  “For Rosium’s sake, get a tent over that thing!” He shouted. “The press might get here soon.”

  “I’m working on it now, sir.” A policeman walked towards him, holding a pop-up tent affair.

  “You are?” Pouchii asked.

  “Lieutenant James Srant, West Saliman Police.” Srant saluted. “I found the body.”

  “I’ll talk to you later.” Pouchii took the tent off him. “Now, let’s get this tent up.”

  Srant nodded, and the pair flicked the canvas so that it rose. Pouchii ducked under, and approached the body, gesturing Srant to stay back. Pouchii pulled his gloves out, and snapped the buttons on his jacket up, to form a suit that shouldn’t contaminate the scene. And then he bent down.

  He turned his nose away at once. The man had clearly been dead for quite some time. Mind you, dumping a body in the middle of a busy slum lane wasn’t exactly the easiest way to dispose of it.

  His eyes turned to the face. Someone had hacked through flesh and bone to mutilate and, perhaps, remove the identity of the victim. That wound wasn’t fresh either, though. It had gone septic.

  Glancing further down, he saw what he suspected to be the cause of death. He’d seen enough gunshot wounds in his time to see that this man had been shot – perhaps two or three times – in the chest and lower body.

  As for the clothes, they weren’t what you’d expect to see round here. He was wearing a suit – tailored, at least – and Pouchii wouldn’t have been surprised if they were from one of North Saliman’s posher end retailers. He looked for a label, at the back of the neck. Goucher and Sons. Very elite. A suit like that could cost millions. This man was clearly a big player, somewhere in the worlds.

  No wallet, though. Pouchii supposed it was too much to ask for. Whomever had killed this wealthy man had obviously not wanted anyone to know who he was. Ah, well. Pouchii turned to the team of forensics behind him.

  “Fast-track this one. I want the report ASAP.” They nodded, so he left the tent. Srant accosted him very quickly.

  “I need to be on my way, so can we talk now?” He had a funny little moustache that he twiddled with while he talked. Showed he was a nervous little bugger, Pouchii thought.

  “Fine,” He said. “Explain to me the circumstances that you found the victim in.”

  “Well,” Srant had to stop fiddling in order to talk. His hands twitched instead. Pouchii mad a mental note to make him talk more. “I was on a routine patrol on the West side of the slums – you know; Brog Street, Cangoyan Road, Dri Lane – when I noticed him lying in the middle of the road. I phoned you lot, as he was just your side of the road.”

  “Why were you patrolling on your own?” Pouchii frowned. “Isn’t it stated in the regulation book that patrols must be a minimum of three persons?”

  “It’s a Friday night – a busy day for us – and we’re understaffed, so my commanding officer has to break a few rules in order to make up numbers.” Srant squirmed.

  “Ok.” Pouchii knew this wasn’t unusual – he’d given the same order himself, sometimes. “You C.O. is Crassengrast?”

  “Yes.” Srant forced a smile.

  “I’ll check it up.” Pouchii watched, as Srant’s hands resumed tearing at his moustache with wild abandon. “You can go, for now.” Srant saluted, and dashed off.

  Pouchii headed over to one of his men.

  “Graider, do you think we can open the left side of the street?” He glanced at the milling crowd. “See if we can disperse this lot?”

  “Sir.” Graider nodded, and started ordering around other constables.

  “And what nationality is a name like Srant?” Pouchii scratched his stubbled chin. “Only, I thought West Saliman Police were mostly foreign.”

  “Mostly, sir.” Graider thought for a moment. “But I think Srant is Saliman born. It sounds like a corruption of the old Von Strankt family. There’s plenty of bastards of the old aristocratic households looming in the streets of Saliman today.”

  “That sounds about right. It’s just the victim looked like an aristocrat.” Pouchii shrugged. “I’ll follow that later. For now I need to check…” His radio went off. He raised it to his ear in an instant.

  “Hello, DCI Pouchii.”

  “Pouchii, it’s Rarien.” This caused Pouchii to stand up little straighter. James Rarien was the Minister of Security, and so ran all branches of the Saliman police force. A call from him meant something was either very good or very bad. He didn’t make social calls.

  “What is it, sir?” Pouchii responded.

  “I believe you have just found a man’s body, in his mid to late forties?” Rarien sounded on edge. Not like him to be nervous, Pouchii noted.

  “Yes. No form of ID, though.” Pouchii felt he dread mounting. He suspected this call might confirm his suspicions. “I reckon that he’s an aristocrat, mind you. Goucher and Sons suit.”

  “Well, the Viscount Momor has been missing for some weeks.” Pouchii nearly collapsed at his superior’s words. Things were much worse than he’d thought. “Clearly, this has to be hushed up. So no press, and get that body ID’d fast. We can but hope it’s not him.”

  “Understood.” Pouchii flicked the radio off. Rosium above, he thought. The Viscount Momor!

  Momor was only a title. The Viscount was more popularly known by his other names. Takka, of the house of Masala. Not only a very wealthy aristocrat, but also a brutal politician. A popular politician, who just happened not only to be the Leading Minister, and therefore in charge of parliament, but also the main opposition to the Queen. His murder would not look good at all for the royal household.

  Pouchii turned back to the policemen behind him.

  “Right, no-one is to talk to the press. I’m holding you all to the Police Information Act, 29. Anyone who so much as poses for a picture will be in gaol for at least ten years. This is big.” There was a series of nods. These men were good. They knew their place. “And I want the body out of sight and in a lab fast.” He turned, and walked to the barricades around the crime scene.

  The second he stepped out, a camera was thrust into his face.

  “Excuse me, DCI, can you release any information as yet?” The pressman was very keen.

  “No.” Pouchii carried on walking. “And if you don’t get that camera out of my way very shortly, I’m afraid I’ll have to escort you down to the police station on a charge of breaching the Police Information Act.” He heard a angry scribbling behind him as he walked on. Doubtless there would be a story in the papers shortly about the killing, with a very negative light on the police investigation. Ah, well. At least it would throw them from the scent of
the Viscount connection.

  Pouchii felt he had walked for miles. That was always the case in Saliman, particularly the south of the city. Cars were banned – they would clog up the streets – so horses and bikes were the only real option for the police. Or for anyone, really. Anyway, Pouchii always thought it best to leave his bike at the police station – it was only a few streets away from most of South Saliman – and today was no exception.

  To get to the station, he had to get onto South Road – the main thoroughfare through the south of the city. It past through all five of the gates before it stopped, just in front of the main keep of the city. The five gates led through the five walls, and all the quarters had their equivalents. Paupers Avenue, where he was at present, was in the space between the 2nd and 3rd walls, so he had to travel a relatively small distance to get to the station, between the 3rd and 4th walls.

  The street was cramped today, even this early in the morning. It was where everyone who had a job went to get there, so it seemed all of South Saliman’s population of nine million were dashing down this poorly cobbled street, that had little or no police presence. It was a security nightmare. Luckily, South Saliman had never had a serious terrorist threat.

  It was a quiet morning in the station when he reached it – most officers seemed to have not come in to work yet – so Pouchii didn’t bother to pick anything or anyone up, apart from his bike. And then he set off again, through the gate in the 4th wall, and up to a crossroads, swerving desperately to avoid pedestrians and newspaper sellers, and even the odd beggar who tried to stop him as he whirred by.

  The crossroads were where South Road intersected with Circular Street, the road that ran the whole circumference of Saliman, through all four districts. He turned left down the street, and weaved his bike down through the Saleem religious district. This small South Saliman neighbourhood was one of the poorest in existence, and the faces that stared at him from the windows of dishevelled houses seemed mutinous. Pouchii shivered and headed on, into West Saliman.

  The West of the city was taken over by foreigners, mostly from the universe of Beauty, although there were a few Windian communities to the north of the segment. The West Police were less then well thought of. It was the sort of place that you went if you had something to cover up, and they were the sort of force who were more than willing to do that covering up if you gave them a sizable cheque. Pouchii didn’t trust them at all.

  West Saliman Police station was situated a few metres back from Circular Street, where it bisected West Road. It was an ugly building – modern cement and fading glass. The scents of spices wafted round it’s lobby as he entered. The carpet was a foul colour.

  The desk sergeant was a cheery man by the name of Crandol. At first he seemed reluctant to allow this jumped up DCI push him into speaking to the Regional Commander – Major Crassengrast, who was the man who Srant said would confirm his whereabouts. However, Pouchii was not the sort of man to take no for an answer, so in very little time at all he was ascending a set of creaking stairs. His phone went, so he apologised to the sergeant, and answered it.

  “Pouchii.” He spoke into the mouth piece.

  “DCI, it’s Graider.” The policeman’s voice filtered through the tinny signal. “We’ve found something on the crime scene. There are van tracks, and the body appears to have been dragged away from them.”

  Common as muck anywhere else, but in Saliman that meant one thing – the vehicle had to be registered.

  “Have you checked which vehicles were in the segment last night?” Pouchii asked.

  “Just the one – a registered emergency service vehicle driven by a Sergeant Drapps – West Saliman Police.” Graider responded.

  “I’ll deal with it.” Pouchii was livid. “Just record those tracks.” He hung up.

  “Something the matter, sir?” Crandol asked, nervously.

  “Oh no.” Pouchii smiled sweetly. “I’ll see the commander.”

  “This way.” Crandol led him into an office that glittered with gilt. Mahogany panels darkened the glare, and there was a leather topped desk at one end. Crassengrast sat at it, his medals jingling as he signed papers. Crandol exited.

  “Crassengrast.” Pouchii’s tone made the major glance up straight away. He looked like a startled rabbit. “We need to talk.”

  “Ah, is this about Lieutenant Srant, is it?” Crassengrast seemed determined not to be cowed. “He had my permission to be on his own…”

  “That’s nice to know.” Pouchii interrupted. “Did he also have your permission to take a body from a crime scene and dump it at a different site?”

  Crassengrast paled.

  “Before you say anything, I have evidence that a police van was used to move a body, and this murder is very high profile, so I’d watch it, if I were you.” The DCI took out his gun and started fiddling with the loading mechanism, as if bored. Crassengrast sank even further into his chair. He though for a moment and then spoke.

  “Well, we’re very stretched at the moment for police officers, in West Saliman, so we thought we wouldn’t need any more cases, so I told Srant to dump anything he found on patrol onto you in South Saliman. I thought he’d only dump minor cases, though – not murder.” Crassengrast defended himself.

  “So he moved the body from a West Saliman street?” Pouchii blew down the gun barrel, absent-mindedly.

  “Yes.” Crassengrast seemed relieved that the blame was being pointed at someone else.

  “Which street?” Pouchii snapped the barrel back into place.

  “I don’t know.” The major grimaced. “Probably…”

  “I don’t want to know where he probably found it.” Pouchii was shouting now. “Bring him in, under arrest, and I’ll question him later. As for now, I will be speaking about your conduct to a higher authority.”

  “Ok.” Crassengrast spoke with a tremble. “I’ll do it now.”

  “Good.” Pouchii holstered his gun and turned to leave. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  He left. As he picked up his bike in the foyer, he tapped the butt of his gun. A smile spread across his face. It had been a while since the incident with this particular gun had played out, but the story was clearly still circulating – the fear on Crassengrast’s face when he drew it was proof of that.

  As he began pedalling down Circular Street in the general direction of his South Saliman apartment, his phone buzzed. He took it out of his pocket.

  “DCI Pouchii. What can I do for you?” He slowed his pedalling.

  “Pouchii. This is Rarien.” The commander spoke clearly. “We’re holding an emergency meeting to assess the situation with regard to the viscount.”

  “Understood, sir.” Pouchii responded. “When and where?”

  “The Earl’s Palace, ASAP.” Rarien sounded stressed. “And try to look vaguely smart.” He dialled off.

  The second the phone was away, Pouchii pedalled faster. As he whirled along the crowded street, he straightened his epaulets, put on his white gloves, and removed a flattened white peaked cap from his pocket, which he then proceeded to jam onto his head.

  The crossroads with South Road were terribly congested – the evening was about to fall, and so commuters milled about in front of him. Pouchii tried ringing the bikes bell, but it was drowned out by the roar of the people. Sighing slightly, the policeman turned on the flashing white light fastened to the front of his cap. The crowd parted to let him through – although he did hear a few sniggers at the stupidity of his headwear.

  Now he was out on the East Saliman section of Circular Street. Smoke smothered the air, and the pedestrians were still filling the whole breadth of the street. This was Saliman’s industrial sector – where tower blocks filled the view of anyone who happened to look away from Saliman’s spire; in fact, the spire itself was almost mirrored by the majesty of TY Tower, which formed the keystone of the experimental sector. Mind you, it was all a bit stainless steel, glass and concrete for the DCI – He was waiting for it to fall down.


  As the smoke cleared and gave way to clearer streets, but darkening skies due to the onset of night, he came to the crossroads between East Road and Circular Street, with the Police Headquarters on his left – another concrete monstrosity. He kept going, onwards into East Saliman’s posher district. Here the houses were by no means cramped, and they all had iron railings across flash front gardens. Even the street cobbles changed – now they were cleaner and had flattened tops, to make it easier to walk on.

  His legs were just starting to tire, when he came to a small road leading off Circular Street. The junction was marked with a tattered building on the corner – The Bent Bicycle, Saliman’s greatest pub. At this time of night, there was a large throng gathering in and around the pub, and the lights on all floors were on full blast, as was the music – a bit of acoustic guitar tonight, by the sounds of it.

  As he headed on, he dismounted and wheeled his bike on foot, so as to avoid hitting any pedestrians. It was dark now, and the faint glow of the gaslights was not nearly enough to avoid killing any walkers. And that would be a catastrophe – people walking round here tended to have a list of titles as long as your leg and a wife on their arm who was wearing a hat big enough to use as a makeshift tent. Not that they needed a makeshift tent – they were all rolling in money.