by Frank Tayell
“But a rota, I mean…” Ruth wasn’t sure how to frame the question.
“They’ve been here at least a month,” Mitchell said. “It’s a good way of ensuring they don’t descend into violence.”
And another cog fell into place. “There’s no coffee,” she said. “No sugar, either. Or alcohol, for that matter. Only bland, easy to prepare food.”
“Makes sense,” Mitchell said. “It’s what I’d do. If you can’t supervise them directly, you put procedures in place to manage their behaviour.” He tried the sliding doors to the garden.
“They’re locked. There’s no key,” Ruth said.
“Which explains why they didn’t go outside,” Mitchell said, “but not why it was locked in the first place. The front door could be opened from the inside, so they weren’t prisoners here. Interesting. How many days of food do they have left?”
“I’m not sure.” Ruth looked in the cupboard again. “A week. Eight days. Not much longer.”
“We know that Emmitt was here a month ago. Hmm.” Mitchell walked across to a closed door on the room’s far side. Ruth had thought it led into the neighbouring room. It didn’t. There were stairs, leading down. Mitchell took a stub of candle from a shelf by the door, lit it, and held it in front. He went down a few steps but quickly retreated. “I envy whoever has to sort though that,” he muttered.
“What is it?”
“Their waste. Cans. Wrappers. Food. All decomposing unpleasantly. So,” he said, blowing out the candle and closing the door. “They have food for eight days. Let’s say a week. Is that a week until they were going to be resupplied, or is that when Emmitt’s plan will be put in place?”
Ruth shrugged. “It’s not enough to last them until the fifth,” she said. “Maybe we were wrong about that.”
“Possibly. But there’s that second attack on the telegraph we’re meant to expect.”
“Unless Ned Ludd was wrong about that,” Ruth said. “He’s hardly a reliable source.”
“You’re forgetting the placards in that cottage, and there’s something else I want to show you.” Mitchell led her out of the kitchen. “The question we have to ask ourselves is whether Fairmont’s information panned out.”
“Well, it has, hasn’t it?”
“We’ve found eight people here, all heavily armed,” Mitchell said. “But what we’re looking for is some connection to Emmitt, Wallace, or the conspiracy. These people could have been involved in anything. They could even have been working for Fairmont, and he threw them under the train in an attempt to save his own neck.”
“Is that likely?”
“No, but it’s always good to be distrustful of a person like Fairmont.”
He led her into the room where she’d shot the man. The man was gone, presumably taken to the hospital while she’d been in the kitchen. She wondered how long ago that had been. It must have been far longer than the few minutes she’d thought. She turned away from the slowly congealing pool of blood and found herself looking at three wooden crates stacked one on top of another. The top most one was open. Mitchell reached in and pulled out an assault rifle.
“Ten in this crate,” he said. “Let’s assume the same in the others. Ammunition’s in those boxes in the corner.”
“Did you say they were British made?”
“Yes, standard issue for the old military, but these rifles?” He turned the weapon over in his hands. “They would have been withdrawn from service at least a decade before the Blackout.”
“So where did they come from?”
“Probably some old government armoury. The barrels aren’t modified to take the new calibre of ammunition, so we know they didn’t come from our Navy or Marines. That’s something. As for the ammunition, there’re at least two thousand rounds here.”
“Eight people, but thirty rifles,” Ruth said. “Who are the other twenty-two for?”
“That’s what I’m worried about. Were these people involved in sabotaging the telegraph, or were they destined for something else? These weapons are troubling. The only thing they could want with so much firepower is revolution. But, according to Riley, those two women were criminals, not insurrectionists.”
“Always more questions,” Ruth said.
“Quite. However we have found a concrete, if tangential, link to the Luddites.”
He walked into the next room. Ruth followed. In the corner was a metal contraption Ruth didn’t immediately recognise.
“It’s a printing press,” Mitchell said, passing her a sheet of paper.
The text was densely crammed on the page and slightly smudged. “Workers should control the means of production,” she read.
“It’s a modern twist on an old slogan,” Mitchell said. “The rest of that page has an anti-technology slant, but there’s no mention of Ludd or of sabotage. If you turn it over, the other side has a completely inaccurate explanation on how radio waves can be used to control machines, and so destroy the jobs of people.”
“It can’t, can it?”
“Not in the way they describe, but most people under the age of thirty would probably believe it. Why wouldn’t they? It’s a story that fits with their understanding of history. It would be very persuasive in our world with only one newspaper. The second paragraph from the end describes that paper as the mouthpiece of imperialist technocracy. Any rebuttal of the pamphlet could be dismissed as propaganda by anyone who wanted to believe this garbage.”
“But surely—” Ruth began, but before she could finish the question, there was a shout from upstairs.
“Mister Mitchell,” Riley called. “You’ll want to see this.”
Sergeant Riley stood outside a room at the top of the stairs. “Six bedrooms,” Riley said. “Three over there.” She pointed at a door on the other side of the landing. “The others are on this side. This is the smallest, and the least private.”
Ruth looked inside. There was one bed, and a mattress on the floor.
“From the clothes,” Riley said, “this is the women’s room. Two of the men shared a room over there.” She pointed across the landing. “The other four men had rooms of their own.”
“Did the women share a room because there’s safety in numbers?” Ruth asked.
“Possibly,” Riley said. “But that’s not the most interesting part. There are clothes in the cupboard. All old-world. Nothing like the rags Ned Ludd was wearing. There are some books, but no personal items except for this.” She picked up a small black backpack. “There’s one by each bed.”
Riley pulled the items out, one by one, and placed them on the mattress. “It’s a go-kit. Knife, towel, first aid-kit, matches, cord, ammunition, chlorine tablets, and so on. Then there’s this.” She looked first at Ruth, then at Mitchell, before she gave a theatrical grin, and pulled out a stack of banknotes.
“Are those twenty-pound notes?” Mitchell asked.
“Every one of them. The serial numbers are in the range for the counterfeit currency,” Riley said.
“How much is there?” Ruth asked.
“Around four thousand pounds. Each bag contained the same amount.”
“Do you think they know the money is forged?” Ruth asked.
“No,” Mitchell said, “but I’ll enjoy telling them.”
He picked up the bag and bent over to refill the contents. He winced and reached for his side.
“Let me see that,” Riley said, and was lifting up the side of Mitchell’s shirt even as the captain stuttered a protest. “Go and get it stitched,” she said. Mitchell opened his mouth to object. “Now.” Riley said, and surprisingly, the captain did.
“He’s like a father?” Ruth asked, after Mitchell had gone.
“I suppose. We’ve been through a lot together. Good and bad. Danger and joy. More danger than joy, now I think about it. How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Really?” Riley asked.
“Sure. I want to get on with the job, you know?”
“Wer
e you finished in the kitchen?”
“I think so,” Ruth said.
“Then you can help me up here. Start by putting those items back in the bag.”
Ruth picked up the stack of bank notes. A sudden sweep of tiredness crashed over her.
“You all right?” Riley asked.
“Sorry, yes. I… It all happened so quickly.”
“It’s like that. You spend days searching for leads, and when they turn up, things spiral. Sit down if you need to. It’s better than falling over.”
“No, no. I’m fine,” Ruth said.
“Okay,” Riley said doubtfully. Silence had barely a chance to settle before she continued. “You shouldn’t have come in on your own.”
“I heard the shots. I knew something was wrong. You needed help,” Ruth said.
“Yes,” Riley said, “but you shouldn’t have come in alone.” She lifted the mattress, looking underneath it. There was nothing there. She moved over to the small dresser. “Acting the hero works in books. In real life it gets people killed. If that woman’s gun had worked, you’d be dead. You can say your survival is down to luck, but if you trust to luck, you’ll die. In this job, so will those around you.” She closed the dresser drawer. “We have to rely on training, on experience, and on each other.” She turned her head up, then down, looking slowly around the room. “No, there’s nothing else here. We’ll try the next room. We’re looking for a journal, diary, or scrap of paper. You’d be surprised what people write down. About five years ago there was a murder where the killer wrote down a step-by-step plan of how to get away with it. He didn’t include ‘don’t leave the instructions hidden in a box halfway up the chimney’. Do you enjoy policing?”
“What? Um… yes, I think so.”
“You’re not sure?” Riley walked out of the room. Ruth followed her along the landing to the next one. The sheets were balled up on the bed, the clothes pilled on the floor. There was a thin line of bare boards visible between the two beds, demarcating which slovenly mess belonged to which criminal. “That’s good.”
“It is?”
“You’d have to be weird to enjoy spending your time around so many thugs,” Riley said.
“Um… yes.” Ruth wasn’t sure if that was a joke. “But you enjoy it, right?”
“Most of the time,” Riley said. “But for me, it’s about maintaining control of the world around me. It doesn’t make for much of a social life.”
“Oh.” Ruth had no idea what to say to that. She kicked at the pile of clothes. She was in no mood to sort through them. “I went to the psychiatrist,” she said. “You know, because of the man I killed.”
“Yes. And?”
“And nothing. I sort of talked for an hour, and then he said I’d have to come back again. That it would take a lot of time.”
“Hmm.” Riley picked up a pair of trousers and turned them over. “No mud on the legs, so they haven’t been worn outside, not recently.” Gingerly, she checked the pockets, and found a folded sheet of paper. “See?” she said, unfolding it. “Ah.” Her flash of vindication vanished.
“What is it?”
“A copy of the pamphlet they were printing,” she said, turning it over. Her brow furrowed. She looked at it more closely.
“What?” Ruth asked again.
“I’ve read something like this before. No, I heard it,” Riley said. “Where? At dinner, I think. I’m trying to remember… oh. Rupert.” The name was said with heartfelt disappointment.
“Who?” Ruth asked.
“Rupert Pine. It doesn’t matter.” She folded the note and placed it in an evidence bag.
“Isn’t he an MP?” Ruth asked. “How do you know him?”
“It’s a long story,” Riley said in a tone that suggested that it wasn’t one she was going to share. She kicked at the pile of clothes. “So you saw the psychiatrist,” she said, unsubtly returning to the previous topic. “In the last two weeks, you’ve seen a lot. You probably do need to talk about it with someone. If that guy doesn’t suit you, go and see someone else. After today, I’d say you should. But what you need to understand is that this job isn’t going to change. If you stay in the police, there will be more days like this. You need to decide if this is something you can do, year in, year out, for the rest of your life.”
“What else is there?” Ruth asked. “I mean, I joined the police because I didn’t get into university. I thought it would be a good career, but now? I don’t know.”
“It can be a good career, but it’s a hard and lonely life. Only you can decide if it’s the right one for you.”
Though that question rang in her mind as they continued searching the house, Ruth couldn’t decide on an answer.
Chapter 5
Interview
“Diane Frobisher,” Riley said, walking into the interview room. “Remember me?”
The prisoner glanced warily between Riley and Mitchell as the two officers took a seat opposite her. Ruth, with Davis and Weaver, was on the other side of the one-way glass that partitioned the old schoolroom. Sergeant Davis lounged in a chair as if he was at some theatrical performance, Weaver stood, arms folded, eyes drinking in the prisoner’s every shuffle and twitch. Ruth’s own eyes felt heavy, and she had to keep blinking them open. The woman who’d tried to shoot Ruth –Jenny V according to the rota, but known as Jamie Vance to Riley – was in the hospital, unconscious with a fractured skull. The woman handcuffed to the desk was the other suspect Riley had discovered was missing from the pub by the docks.
“I remember you,” Riley continued. “And I remember the scam you were running. You’d find a moderately wealthy mark and ‘fall in love’.” The inverted commas clanged into place as Frobisher looked from one officer to the other, and then to the door, seeking some way out. “You’d persuade him to finance an expedition to the wasteland in search of some great national treasure,” Riley continued, “with the promise its recovery would bring you both fame, wealth, and a lifetime of marital bliss.”
“What kind of treasures?” Mitchell asked.
“The crown jewels,” Riley said. “The location of a missing nuclear submarine. Once it was the only extant copy of Shakespeare’s lost play, Cardenio.” She turned back to the prisoner. “And as soon as you’d milked him dry, your missing first husband would return, as if from the grave. You were left richer, and the poor sap was left broke. You did two years light labour, one clearing the roads from here to Folkestone, another digging drainage ditches around farms in northern Dorset. I remember you, Frobisher.”
“Diane F, on the cleaning rota,” Mitchell said, taking the piece of paper out of the folder he’d taken in with him. “There’s no point denying it.”
Frobisher took one final look at the door before turning to face Riley and Mitchell.
“I wasn’t going to,” she said. “And yes, I remember you.”
Ruth hadn’t expected that. From the way that Weaver was smiling, the assistant commissioner had. Ruth wanted to ask what verbal trap Frobisher had talked her way into, but couldn’t. Though the mirrored glass prevented them from being seen, they all knew the room was nowhere close to soundproof.
“Good,” Mitchell said. “Then tell us what you were doing in that house.”
“Waiting and not breaking the law.” The suspect spoke with a cultivated accent that sounded almost cultured. Almost. She was concentrating so hard on not dropping her ‘t’s that she’d forgotten about her ‘g’s.
“You had a lot of illegal firearms for a law-abiding citizen,” Riley said.
“You won’t find my fingerprints on any of them,” Frobisher said.
“That won’t stop us from charging you with their possession,” Mitchell said. “Perhaps I wasn’t clear. You don’t know how much trouble you’re in. I’m going to set out your situation clearly and honestly. If you do the same with your replies, it’s possible you might escape the death penalty.”
Surprise knocked the mask from Frobisher’s face. “Death penalty?”<
br />
“It’s still on the books,” Mitchell said. “A legitimate punishment for treason and insurrection. That’s what you’re involved in.”
“I…” Frobisher began, but then the smile returned, pulling the mask back into place. “You’re bluffing.”
“I’m not. Longfield!” Mitchell yelled at the door.
Simon came into the room carrying one of the backpacks they’d found in the house’s bedrooms. Frobisher watched him with suspicion.
“I’m going to tell you something, Frobisher,” Mitchell said, taking the bag from Simon. “And then I’m going to show you something. After that you’ll be given your chance to talk. Six of you are still alive. One of you will take this deal. That person will live. The rest of you will go to prison. You’ll be sentenced to death. There are some lawyers arguing that the death penalty is illegal. That it was established as part of the Emergency Powers Act after the Blackout by a government that wasn’t properly constituted. So, your lawyer will stage an appeal. It doesn’t matter. You’ll be a dead woman walking from the moment you step into prison. Your boss won’t let you live. He’ll kill you so you won’t talk.”
Frobisher smiled. “Is that it? That’s what you wanted to tell me? It’s a variation on the same threat every police officer has used since the dawn of time.”
“I hadn’t finished,” Mitchell said. “Whether or not you understand the danger you’re in, I want to know that I’ve informed you as to the risks. You can ignore me, but my conscience will be clear.” He opened the bag and pulled out the stack of banknotes. “There’s four thousand pounds here, and the same in each of the backpacks we found in that house. That’s telling. Specifically, it tells me that you were all terrified of the person who gave it to you. Otherwise you’d have stolen it.” He paused. There was no response from the prisoner.
“It was payment wasn’t it?” Riley asked.
Frobisher’s eyes narrowed, but she said nothing.
“You have a cleaning rota,” Mitchell said. “There’s no alcohol in the house. No coffee. No sugar. Not even any sweetener. The garden door was locked, but we found a key around the neck of one of the men we killed.” He moved his finger across the handwritten rota, but kept his eyes fixed on Frobisher. “Manuel G? No.” His finger stopped. “Mark R? Ah. He didn’t open the door when a hot-air balloon flew overhead so low that the rope dangling from the basket knocked against the windows of your house. That’s telling me you were told not to go outside, and so you didn’t. You were paid in advance, yet you didn’t steal the money and run. There’s only one thing that can do that. Fear. You are terrified of the man who paid you.”
