He walked past another imposing building now – the Cathedral of Rosium – but it was shut up now, with only the odd monk or bishop scurrying around the entranceway, saying their final prayers for the day.
At last, he came to the end of the street, panting slightly. Blocking the road was a vast building, with a fluted stone colonnade jutting out in perfect white stone. The doors and window-frames were gilded, and the national flag of Saliman flapped in the breeze above a turreted roof. The Earl’s Palace.
Pouchii climbed a series of stone steps up through the colonnade, to the main, gilded, door. There was a huge brass knocker on the door, with the Saliman coat of arms engraved on it, which he struggled to lift, so that it bashed against a steel base. The thing sparked and clanged ominously, and the door was opened almost at once.
“Yes?” An immaculately dressed servant stood in the doorway. His buttons gleamed, and his white uniform was crisply emblazoned with the crest of the Earl of Saliman.
“I’m DCI Malcolm Pouchii, here about the Viscount, as ordered.” Pouchii removed his police cap in respect as he was ushered in. His bike was taken by another servant off down a corridor bedecked in purple, with gloriously wallpapered walls, and a hat stand with a few exotic pieces of headgear assorted on it in so neat a display it looked as if none of them had ever been worn.
The servant addressed him again.
“I will announce you into this room.” He gestured at a magnificently white door. “The Earl and the rest of his guests are waiting to receive you.”
The door was opened, and Pouchii was swept in by the servant’s arm.
“My lords, the Detective Inspector Malcolm Pouchii.” He bowed, and left.
The room was a whole new level of opulence. The walls were covered in purple and gold leaf striped wallpaper, and the ceiling was at least twenty feet high. It was painted with a spectacular fresco of Her Lady Rosium preaching to the Di-ian Serpent. There were also lesser paintings dotted around the walls – of former Earls, monarchs and eminent men of the city.
The present Earl, alongside several other prominent men, were standing around the room, talking in low tones. This talking seemed barely to have stopped, even when Pouchii had entered the room. The only reaction was the occasional nod of welcome. And then Rarien swept up to him.
The minister of security was dressed in full police uniform, with a selection of impressive medals strategically placed around his jacket. His hair was wild, and his beard was definitely out of control. He had bags under both of his deep grey eyes.
“Pouchii.” He growled. “You’re late.”
“I had to get over from East Saliman.” Pouchii explained. “Traffic was terrible.”
“Fair enough.” Rarien nodded at the men in the room. “Most of these people were at the same banquet as the viscount, just before he vanished. They are suspects.”
“Dangerous turf, then.” To Pouchii, it looked like a who’s who of Saliman’s aristocratic elite.
“Which is exactly why I am placing this entire investigation in your hands.” Rarien turned to the DCI.
“Pardon?” Pouchii took a step back. “Surely you are far more suited to this with your grasp of politics and experience dealing with the aristocracy?”
“But I’m a politician.” Rarien explained. “If I find a wealthy, political aristocrat guilty, then questions will be asked as to my motives. I need to wash my hands of this investigation.”
“Fair enough.” Pouchii accepted his reasoning. “But I’ll want no restraints, no time limits and utter control.”
“Ok.” Rarien nodded, slowly. “I also thought you’d want someone who could navigate their way through the aristocrats.”
“Definitely.” Pouchii agreed. “But no-one who was at that final banquet, and nobody who is even slightly political.”
“Of course.” Rarien smiled. “Meet Lord Marcus Sethlon, the 11th Duke Klagen.”
A tall man stepped forwards from behind Rarien. He had sharp blue eyes and a spectacular grey moustache. He wore coat-tails and a crisp white bowtie.
“DCI.” He winked. “It’s my pleasure.”
“Thanks.” Pouchii extended a hand, which Lord Sethlon shook vigorously. “I think I’ll be needing someone to tell me who all these Dukes and Earls are.”
“Well,” Rarien stepped back. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Wait a moment.” Pouchii put out a hand to stop him. “The body was fiddled with by East Saliman police.” He told him about Srant and Crassengrast. “Can you send someone over to sort them out and replace Crassengrast?”
“I’ll sort it.” Rarien look furious. “But I’ll leave Srant in their cells for the time being so you can question him.”
“Thanks.” Pouchii turned away from the policeman. “Now, my Lord, should we talk to these witnesses?”
“Sounds like a plan.” Sethlon nodded. “Let’s start over their.” He gestured to a man in a spectacular blue pinstriped suit, neatly combed hair and beard, and a pair of rather round spectacles, standing talking to another man, this time in a smart pinstriped jacket and black trousers with a giant bowtie at least a foot across, with a drooping moustache and matching glasses perched on a pair of pointed ears.
“That’s the Earl of Saliman and Lord Cavidir, right?” Pouchii squinted at them.
“Yes, both prominent politicians. Carlos, the Earl, is in charge of the Saliman Imperialists, one of Saliman’s biggest parties, and he’s the queen’s cousin, several million times removed.” He paused for breath. “As for Cavidir, he’s the Minister of Finance and the East Saliman Minister for the Salimaner Equalitists, Saliman’s biggest political party.”
“The same party that my boss Rarien is in charge of.” Pouchii muttered as they crossed the floor and approached the pair.
“Quite.” Sethlon approached the pair and bowed very low. “My Lords Cavidir and Saliman. May I present DCI Pouchii.”
“You most certainly can.” Saliman turned to the DCI. “What can I do for you, my dear fellow?”
“Well, sir, if you can just tell me the circumstances of the evening of the viscount’s disappearance, that would be fantastic.” Pouchii withdrew a notebook and pen.
“Well, it was an odd evening to begin with.” The Earl stated. “The Queen wanted to air some new proposal for us to vote through government.”
“Yes,” Interrupted Cavidir. “She seemed intent on persuading Takka to pass some legislation which would…”
“It was very complicated, I think that’s all the DCI needs to know.” The Earl stopped him.
“I think we can assume for the sake of the inquiry that I am not thick.” Pouchii was annoyed. “Carry on, my lord.”
“Very well,” Cavidir barely glanced at the Earl as this heated exchange was going on. “This legislation would have effectively got parliament to dissolve, permanently.”
“Sorry?” Sethlon looked deeply shocked. “Surely she can’t do that?”
“She can’t, but if parliament votes to dissolve itself, then no-one can stop it.” Cavidir frowned. “But Takka, as Leading Minister was refusing point blank even to put it to parliament, let alone try to push it through.”
“Sort of puts the Queen in line for ordering the killing.” Pouchii suggested, quietly.
“I think that’s something none of us wishes to consider at present.” The Earl dismissed the comment. “As for times that we left, I think Earl von Kanstien left first, at about ten to eight.”
“He’s the gentleman over there in the flash suit with the wild hair and sparking eyes, with spittle coming from his mouth.” Sethlon explained. “He’s head of the Salimaner Anti-Monarchist Party.”
“Then Earl Panstoke at eight-fifteen.” Carlos continued.
“The man talking to Kanstien, with the immaculate white suit and greying hair. He’s a minor Anti-Monarchist politician.”
“Then me and Lord Catchbridge, who’s sitting over their in his cavalry officers jacket with all his medals and sabre attached
, left at eight-thirty.” Cavidir butted in.
“Then Takka left.” The Earl explained. “At around eight-forty-ish, followed by me and the Lady Rosium at eight-forty-five.”
“The Lady Rosium being the Goddess standing over their.” Sethlon grinned.
“I did know that.” Pouchii rolled his eyes. “Anyway, who did that leave at the palace?”
“Just the Queen and the King.” Carlos finished.
“And did any messengers go in or out in that time?” Pouchii asked.
“Not that I saw.” Cavidir shook his head. “But it would be easy enough to sneak one in or out. I mean, the palace is massive.”
Pouchii looked at them both, hard.
“Ok.” He turned to Sethlon. “I need a word.”
“Fine.” Sethlon walked away from the two, with Pouchii behind him.
“I need to see what forensics have turned up, so I’m going to go and see them. I want you to interview this lot. I want any links with the viscount, and anything they saw him doing at any point. I’ll see you early tomorrow morning at East Saliman Police Station. That Ok?” He rattled off his orders.
“Sounds good. I’ll be there.” Sethlon turned back to the room, and Pouchii left, into the night.
Half an hour later, Pouchii strolled through the grim concrete doors of a giant slab of a building in East Saliman’s industrial sector. This was the police’s science department building. He was greeted at the desk by a policeman who saluted him smartly and escorted him down a series of poorly lit corridors and windowless passageways, until they came to the mortuary suite.
It was a quiet little series of greying rooms lined with freezers and stainless steel. Pouchii shivered somewhat as he entered; the foreboding scent of death hung in the air.
Graider met him in a small side room, complete with table and a cloth draped over the body.
“Sir, this is Dr Granot, who carried out the autopsy as instructed.” He indicated a man in a off-white coat who started as Pouchii entered.
“I know.” Pouchii nodded at the man. “We’ve met.”
“Rosium above, Graider.” Granot turned to leave. “You didn’t tell me it was his investigation.”
“Why, what objection do you have?” Graider tried to stop the doctor exiting. “He’s just a policeman.”
“He stopped being ‘just a policeman’ the day he shot me.” Granot turned on his heel and left. “You can explain my autopsy.”
“But…”Graider protested.
“I’ve just spent ten minutes explaining it to you.” He shouted over his shoulder. “If you need any thing else, get someone else.”
There was an awkward pause.
“Long story.” Pouchii smiled, uneasily. “He’s over the moon about it all, really.”
“I don’t want to know.” Graider turned back to the table.
“Right, this is the autopsy report.” He picked up a booklet ten centimetres thick. “Body has been dead for at least three weeks.”
“Matches the viscount.” Pouchii muttered. “Three and a half weeks exactly since he disappeared.”
“The suit is Goucher and sons, so it has a serial number.” Graider ignored Pouchii’s interjection. “We have confirmed that it was bought at the shop by the viscount Momor ten years ago.”
“Was it still in his possession three and a half weeks ago?” Pouchii asked.
“We asked the household, and the answer’s yes.” Graider tapped a line in the report. “So the Doctor then decided to try to confirm the body was his. As a publicity stunt, a few months back, the viscount donated some blood to the new blood bank in the Universe of Rock. The usual political rubbish.”
“So you checked the blood analysis from the Rockian database with the blood from our murdered friend, here.” Poucii knew that this was the key to the whole thing, so he looked up.
“Well,” Graider sighed. “The Rockians have a bank holiday today and tomorrow. They’ve said they’ll get back to you ASAP.”
“Which is?” Pouchii was planning in his mind how the investigation would run.
“When the holiday finishes. Two days.” Graider grimaced. “So, we can’t be sure if it is the viscount. What we can tell you is that the victim was killed with ruthless precision.” He pulled back the sheet from the table to show the lolling head. “Two shots to the chest. Bullets show signs of being at very high temperatures, so it would suggest some form of silencer, and the shape of the bullets implies that the gun was a Pasiones – made in the Universe of Wind. The mutilation of the face was done very swiftly, and with obsidite – the strong form of acid extracted on planets such as Erodium in Wind.”
“So the killer or killers simply poured obsidite on the face?” Pouchii shuddered.
“Yes, but after he was dead. He didn’t bleed that much.” Graider traced the profile of the face. Or what was left of it. “The hair has also been splashed with it, so we can’t use it to identify the victim – it’s all disintegrated. We found traces of the viscount’s hair on the suit – but if it’s his suit, I suppose there would be traces of his hair on it.”
“Quite.” Pouchii nodded. “Anything else you can give me?”
“Well, it looks like a professional killing to me.” Graider paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “Two shots is a classic method of killing people carried out by assassins all across the universe, but the obsidite is easier to trace – we tracked that particular concentration and strain of it to a mine in North Erodium. The Establishment Mine.”
“I’ll mull it over.” Pouchii smiled, nodded to Graider, and walked out towards the exit. “Get back to me on those blood tests.”
When he stepped out onto the street, his mind was clicking through every possibility. He climbed onto his bike, still daydreaming, and switched on its headlight – it was almost pitch black now, and the stars were the only things making Saliman’s white walls glimmer and shimmer, bathing the streets in an effervescent glow even now.
Pouchii stared up at the great pinnacle of white rock that rose at Saliman’s centre, its keep and palace combined, still gleaming like a candle, and sighed to himself. All this glory and wealth, and yet, behind the glittering exterior, it was still rotten to the core. Rosium, how he despised aristocrats. With all that money and political machinations, it was hardly surprising that the occasional one got assassinated. In fact, it was quite impressive that the viscount had survived as long as he had, particularly considering how he had made an enemy of the queen.
A couple of hundred years ago, if that had happened, it would have been a matter of days before you went missing and were found dead in the street. But today? Hadn’t Saliman evolved?
The present queen was a nightmare, though. Pouchii sighed. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had decided to bump the viscount off. And then what do you do? Is it constitutionally possible to arrest a monarch?
He’d leave that one to Sethlon. He was supposed to be an unbiased aristocrat. But did such a thing exist? Pouchii doubted it. Bastard was probably in the queen’s pay already.
And then there was Srant, the policeman who’d corrupted the crime scene. Was he just a corrupt cop, or did he know something? Pouchii didn’t know. If he’d found a body on an obscure back street, did he have someone who’d told him where to find it, or did he just bump into? One thing was clear – Pouchii needed to talk to him soonish. Tomorrow, maybe. If he wasn’t too busy with Sethlon.
Now even the stars seemed to be fading out of confusion. Pouchii had reached South Saliman, so he turned down the side street next to South Saliman police station, and let his bike slide to a stop outside his block of flats.
He parked it in a secure lockup at the bottom, and started to climb. Twenty-seven steps exactly. He’d counted them often enough to know. The steps themselves were concrete, as was the banister, and daubed with graffiti. The elections rumoured to be coming up had obviously taken their hold on the artists, and Pouchii was amused to see Carlos, the Earl of Saliman he’d talked to earlier, de
picted urinating in the queen’s mouth.
By the time he’d reached the top, he was on an open, promenade-style, corridor, made of solid concrete with great glassless windows which opened out into the night over Saliman, with small, steel balustrades running down the edges. He paused in front of his front door to frown at a depiction of the Viscount Momor clutching at his burning face, with the slogan beneath “Takka is dead.” The paint was still wet.
The Viscount Connection Page 2
