by Frank Tayell
“I left a guard there.”
“You did?”
“Isaac.”
It wasn’t only Isaac. Gregory was standing close by.
“Ruth, how are you!” Isaac said, as effusively as ever. Gregory moved his head a fraction of an inch in what might have been a nod of greeting.
“Is it just the two of you?” Ruth asked.
“Kelly is around, somewhere,” Isaac said. “You can tell by the fact you can’t see her. This cottage is as secure as anywhere can be in these troubled times.”
“No one’s turned up, then?” Mitchell asked.
“People? No. Not within two miles. There have been five robins and a… what’s the collective noun for a group of starlings?”
“A flock,” Mitchell said.
“No, no, there’s a specific word for them,” Isaac said.
“So no one’s come,” Mitchell said. “Have you been inside?”
“No one has tampered with your evidence,” Isaac said.
“You mean you did go inside,” Mitchell said.
“Briefly,” Isaac said. “During the dark watches of the night, when the beasts of the forest—”
“Keep watch while we look around,” Mitchell cut in. “Warn us if anyone approaches.”
“With gunfire, if nothing else,” Isaac said.
Ruth couldn’t tell if he was being serious. Certainly, he seemed to be enjoying himself.
“If no one has come back, then that means there’s probably nothing of worth inside,” she said, as she followed Mitchell through the broken wooden gate and up the cracked-paving path.
“Don’t assume that,” Mitchell said. “Perhaps Ludd’s arrest has yet to reach Emmitt’s ears. If I were a saboteur, I’d baulk before taking him that news. Even if Emmitt does know, and knows there’s nothing here that will lead us to him, we can learn something about the groups that cut the other wires. Do you see the weeds? Someone attempted to create a garden but gave up five or six years ago. It’s the same with the house.” He walked off the path and rapped the wooden board covering the window. It gave a flat thud. “Rotten, and the gutters haven’t been touched in months. What does that tell us?”
“That Ned Ludd wasn’t here long?”
“Probably for no longer than a few nights,” Mitchell said. “So where did he live last week?”
“It’s a shame, really,” Ruth said. “It’s a nice spot for a cottage. I wonder why no one lives here.”
“There’s no well,” Mitchell said. “And it’s too far from the nearest stream. Go inside. Take a look around. Start upstairs and work your way down. I want to have a word with Isaac. Oh, and Deering?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Don’t forget your gloves.”
Upstairs had a small bathroom and three bedrooms that weren’t much larger. One had a rusting metal bedstead that looked far less comfortable than the mattresses on the floors of the other rooms.
“Five mattresses, one bed. I wouldn’t sleep in it,” Ruth murmured. The thin sheet covering it suggested someone had. “But it doesn’t mean six people were here yesterday.”
There was a single wardrobe out on the landing, but its only contents were a few rotten strands of black cloth hanging from a brittle plastic hanger. The rough woollen tunics and trousers were discarded in a pile on the floor of one bedroom. Gingerly, she separated the garments. There were five sets.
“Five sets. So there were six of them. The three who ran came back here, changed, and left. They took their things away with them.” As she said the words she knew she was missing something. “Ned Ludd. Where are his clothes?”
She checked under the bed and lifted the mattresses. There were no sign of them. “They took them away. Or…” Maybe they hadn’t. They’d been able to run because they were wearing shoes. Presumably the same shoes they’d worn after they’d discarded the wool tunics. Whether those were old-world trainers, or newly made leather boots, they wouldn’t be noticeable on the feet of someone walking down the high street in Twynham. Perhaps Ned Ludd wore clogs because they were his only pair of shoes, and the tunic and trousers were his only set of clothes. In which case, there was no sixth set of clothes to be taken away.
“It’s a theory,” she said, and looked around for the evidence to prove it. She went into the bathroom long enough to take in the cracked ceramic, the mould in the sink and the… she wasn’t sure what was in the bath except that it was a silvery green, and at least an inch deep. She backed out onto the landing.
She went downstairs, ignored the two front rooms, and headed for the small kitchen. It was as sparsely furnished as the rest of the house. There was a cracked pine table, and a small cupboard attached to the wall. From the discolouration of the plaster she guessed there had once been more cupboards.
“Probably used as kindling for the open fire.” The ashes had been raked, and a metal saucepan sat in the corner. It was empty, but clean.
In the one remaining cupboard was a mismatched collected of mugs and plates. She picked one up. It looked clean. On the top shelf was a half-filled kilo sack of coarse oats.
“What do you think?” Mitchell called, coming through the door.
“Firstly, that one bed and five mattresses doesn’t mean that six people were here. The five sets of clothing might, but I can’t find any other proof.”
“There’re six sets of footprints near the back door, all leading off into the trees,” Mitchell said. “If you’ve seen the bathroom, I think you can guess why. As for confirmation, Kelly got close enough to count them before she went looking for Isaac.”
“Oh. I see. Well, these footprints, does one set match Ludd’s clogs?”
“I’d say so,” Mitchell said.
“Then Ned Ludd’s wearing his normal clothes,” Ruth said, relieved she’d deduced something correctly.
“Yeah. You remember what he said about buttons and zips? That man is a true believer. What else?”
“They took away anything they thought would identify them. Either that or they didn’t bring anything with them. No books, no entertainment. But assuming they left on foot, they can’t have carried much, so that confirms they weren’t here for very long.”
“Have you seen the front room?” Mitchell asked.
It wasn’t a large space, but it was full of wood. The floor was carpeted with sawdust. Thin, uncut sections of planking leaned against the boarded-up window. Against the far wall was a haphazard stack of placards. Some had slogans painted on them, others hadn’t.
Mitchell picked up a sign. “Radio means AIs,” he read aloud. “So I guess they don’t approve of the transatlantic broadcast. Imagine a dozen of them holding these signs, with someone like Ned Ludd yelling out slogans.” He picked up another sign. “Technology equals death.” He let it fall to the ground. “Well, at least it’s succinct.” He gave her a look she was growing to know well. It was his way of prompting her that she’d failed to notice the obvious.
“There’s too many placards?” she guessed, saying the first thing that came to mind.
“Close. You said these people left, taking anything that might identify them. I agree with you. But how did this wood and those mattresses get here? There’s no sign of a horse being grazed outside. There are a few rutted wheel marks though they begin about fifty yards from the house. Someone dropped them off, with the mattresses, the wood, and the food.”
“There are too many signs to carry, so they wouldn’t have made them if they were planning on leaving here on foot,” Ruth said.
“Right. So who was driving the cart? It’s something to think about while you make a start on the placards. Write down the slogans, add a tag to each, and take them outside. I’ll deal with the tools.”
Ruth hadn’t noticed those. There were two saws, four hammers, and a pair of very crude looking shears, similar to the kind with which Ned Ludd had wanted to cut the telegraph wire.
“The placards,” Mitchell prompted.
Ruth took out her notepad. “T
echnology is Death,” she read aloud as she wrote it down. “Progress means Poverty,” she read on the next one. An idea struck her, and she quickly went through the signs. “It’s not here,” she said.
“What isn’t?”
“The truth lies in the past.”
“I don’t suppose they’ve been so kind as to leave a map stating where they’ve gone, or a signed confession stating what their next target will be, either. Write down the slogans and take the placards out to the cart. I’d like to be done before lunchtime.”
“At least we know none of them were carpenters,” Ruth said, coming back inside after taking the last of the placards outside. “None of those nails were straight. They weren’t tailors, either. That’s obvious from the tunics.”
“Which eliminates about twenty thousand people from our inquiries,” Mitchell said. “Metal nails, metal saucepans, metal tools – they reject some trappings of technology, but not all of them. Except for Ned Ludd. Interesting, indeed. I’ll take the cart back to Police House. You can start gathering evidence.”
“Start? Haven’t we finished?”
Mitchell grinned. “We haven’t even begun. Start with the sawdust. Sweep it up, and as much of as it you can.”
“Why?”
“Because there seems like a lot more of it than has come from the placards that are here. We’ll get someone to make a few, and we’ll weigh the sawdust and compare it to the amount you collect. That will confirm how many were made. From that we’ll know whether someone came here to collect the ones that were finished. After that, check under the mattresses, behind the sinks, the backs of the cupboards. Look for scraps of paper, wrappers, anything else. Then start on the exterior. Look for soil that’s been recently disturbed – oh, but do remember that there doesn’t appear to be an outhouse.”
“I have to do all of that?”
“I’ll send someone to help.”
Sweeping the sawdust into a pile didn’t take long. Gathering it all into evidence bags did. Ruth tried to get Isaac to help.
“Wouldn’t that be interfering with a crime scene?” he asked. “I wouldn’t want to break the law.”
When she’d finally finished, she began a slow, methodical search of the cottage. There were two jars of cheap paint, both of the blue-black colour used on doors and windowsills by people who couldn’t afford any better – which was most of the population. It was in a glass jar rather than a recycled can, but it had to have come from the chemical works on the River Stour. Would Ned Ludd have known that?
She was steeling herself to attempt a search of the vile bathroom when there was a shout of greeting from outside. She didn’t recognise the voice, but from the Welsh lilt, she guessed it was Sergeant Davis. Grateful for the excuse, she went downstairs, and outside. Davis had brought the horse and now-empty cart with him.
“Are you here alone?” he asked. “Captain Mitchell said he’d left some hunters here, guarding the place.”
“Hunters? Oh, yes.” Ruth looked around. There was no sign of Isaac or the far more easy to spot Gregory. “They must have left. I’ve bagged up the sawdust and was about to start searching the bathroom.”
“Good,” Davis said. “I’m to instruct you on processing a crime scene. We’ll start with fingerprints. Bathrooms are good, since everyone needs to wash.”
“Not in this bathroom they didn’t,” Ruth said. “It’s pretty grim. I don’t think they washed while they were here.”
“After seeing the state of your man in the cells, that doesn’t come as a surprise. We’ll try the kitchen. People gravitate toward food, and criminals are no different from anyone else in that regard.”
“You interviewed Ned Ludd?” Ruth asked.
“I did,” Davis said. “Or I asked questions, and he responded with words. Calling them answers would be a stretch.”
“Oh. So you didn’t learn anything?”
“Do you know the lawyer trick?”
“No.”
“It is a wonderful little loophole in our new legal system. Everyone is entitled to a lawyer,” Davis said. “A lawyer asks for a name and an address. That goes into the court docket to which we have access. If a suspect isn’t willing to give us a name, sometimes they don’t realise they shouldn’t tell it to their legal representative. You know what he told the man from the Home Office?”
“I’m guessing he said that his name is Ned Ludd?”
“That’s right, and his address is Sherwood Forest.”
“Oh. So not exactly helpful.”
“Not exactly.” Davis grabbed a small wooden box from the back of the cart and followed Ruth into the house. “But he does seem to believe what he says. Hmm. Smell that?”
“Damp?” Ruth said.
“And thankfully not the stench of ripe human bodies. Captain Mitchell likes to read a criminal by their clothing. I say follow your nose. It’s the most overlooked instrument in a detective’s arsenal. Where’s the kitchen?”
Ruth pointed. “You’re from Wales, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Born and baptised, and except for a few jaunts here to the south coast, I’ve lived there all my life.”
“As a police officer?” Ruth asked.
“That’s right.”
“And that’s an old-world uniform, isn’t it?”
“It is. I was police before the Blackout,” he said. “I swore my oath to Queen Elizabeth and joined Her Majesty’s Constabulary. I was a sergeant then, and I’m a sergeant now. No one can take that away, and I won’t let them promote me out of it.”
“Was there anything like this in Wales?” she asked.
“You mean a conspiracy hell-bent on bringing down civilisation? Not recently. There are a few outlandish cults, and many who believe in the literal truth of The Good Book. Of course, each group is referring to a different book when they say it. But I don’t think Mr Ludd is religious. Not in the conventional sense.”
“What about an anti-technological attitude?” Ruth asked. “Is there much of that?”
“A little, but the prevailing attitude swings the other way. Have you ever been to Wales?”
“No.”
“Oh, you should. It’s the most beautiful place on Earth,” Davis said. “It’s God’s own country. They say He made it after He’d learned from His mistakes with England.”
“You lived in a city there?” Ruth asked.
“In the mobile mining city currently ripping coal out of the verdant soil of Glamorgan,” Davis said. “I will grant you that those aren’t beautiful in the traditional sense, but there is a precise elegance to them that I find striking. I don’t suppose you know much about mining?”
“You dig coal out and stick it on a train,” Ruth said.
“I stand corrected!” Davis boomed. “When we were starting out, there weren’t many who knew any more than that. We needed electricity, but the refineries were gone, as were the pipelines. There was so much ash in the sky that solar panels were next to useless. We had wind turbines, but they were in the wrong places. What we had was the strength of our arms, and what Britain had was coal, see? Not as much as it once did, but enough to get us through. We hacked it out of the ground, and it fed our locomotives and the power stations, and so we built the factories. But soon that first pit was mined out, so the city had to move. The miners went, as did their families, the traders, the cooks, and all the other hangers on. Then we started to dig again. The furnaces were fed for nearly two years before the pit was so deep it was taking as much energy to get the coal out as it was providing, see?”
“Um… no. Not really,” she said.
“Miners have to be fed. They have to be watered. They have to be housed, their children schooled, and so the teachers need to be fed as well. That means farmers, and whether you want to call it food or energy, ultimately it comes down to the same thing. The mines moved, and so did the miners and everyone else. That’s why they call them the mobile mining cities. It’s that constant movement that causes friction in the local
community. If a miner wants to settle in a place, to make a home they can call their own, they move to a deep pit in Scotland or northern England. They leave Wales, and there are enough of us who remember the stories of when this happened before that we won’t let the mass exodus happen again. To stop it, we need to create something more permanent in Wales. It’s not based on coal. It has to be something else, something new. So, in short, no you’d be unlikely to find much of this technophobic sentiment there, nor much sympathy for Mr Ludd and his friends. Have you done much fingerprinting?”
“In the academy, yes.”
“That place? Ha!” he said with as much scorn as Mitchell used to describe it. “They asked me to teach there, you know. I’d have said yes if I could have stayed a sergeant. It’s sergeants that run the world, always has been. Remember that. Now, I’ll show you how it’s done, and as we work, you can tell me about this assassination. Captain Mitchell told me you were the one who shot Emmitt.”
“Well, it was nothing really,” Ruth said. “I saw Jameson outside the apartment block. I went in. Emmitt was there with a gun in his hand. I fired. I hit his arm. He ran. I chased. I caught Jameson.”
“Oh, come now, that isn’t how you tell a story so it fills a long afternoon of tedious work. Try again, this time without missing any details.”
So Ruth did.
Chapter 3
The Embassy
3rd October
Ruth was halfway through breakfast when there was a knock on the door. Expecting to see Mr Foster, their landlord, she threw it open and almost jumped in surprise at the sight of Captain Mitchell.
“Sir? What’s happened?”
“Nothing. You and I have an appointment at the embassy.”
“Henry? Is that you?” Maggie called as she came to see who was at the door. “Why don’t you come in and have some tea?”
“I’d love a coffee, Maggie,” Mitchell said, stepping inside.
Ruth knew that the captain had been to the house before, but it was supremely surreal to see her commanding officer sitting at the kitchen table.
