by Frank Tayell
The woman smirked and leaned back. The chain clinked as she tried to move her handcuffed hands. The smirk briefly flashed into a scowl.
“Why were you there?” Mitchell asked. “That’s my question.”
“Six men, two women,” Riley said. “Only a handful of books to read. Was that it? You and Jenny Vance were there for entertainment?”
“It wasn’t like that,” Frobisher said.
“No? What was it like?” Mitchell asked.
Frobisher shook her head.
“I said I would tell you something. Here it is,” Mitchell said. “The money’s fake. The serial numbers confirm it. We broke the counterfeiting ring two weeks ago and have been following their trail ever since. That’s how we found you. Because of this, the Mint is going to withdraw all twenty-pound notes from circulation and replace them with a new design. In a few weeks, this money will be worthless. Four thousand pounds? It’s nearly two years of my salary. How would you spend that in a week?”
Frobisher’s eyes flicked between Mitchell, Riley, and the notes.
“She doesn’t believe you,” Riley said.
“No. Perhaps I should prove it to her. Longfield?”
Simon went out into the corridor and brought in a metal trolley. On the bottom shelf was a metal bin. The top shelf was covered by a thin sheet. Despite everything that had happened so far that day, or perhaps because of it, Ruth was looking forward to what was about to happen.
Mitchell removed the sheet, revealing row upon row of neatly stacked bank notes. “There’s two hundred thousand pounds here,” he said. “And that’s not even a fraction of the amount waiting for disposal in the vault.” He placed the bin on the floor, took a bundle of notes from the trolley, removed the string holding the stack together, and dropped them into the bin.
“Do you have a match, sergeant?”
Riley reached into her pocket, and with deliberate exaggeration, pulled out a book of matches. Mitchell took them, struck one, and dropped it in. They’d soaked the bin with accelerant, so when the flame hit the evaporating vapour, it caught with a soft whoosh. Flames licked upward for a second, bathing the room with a sinister orange glow. Mitchell picked up the stack of notes from the table and riffled through them.
“They’re forged. Do you understand?” he said.
“It’s… it’s a trick,” Frobisher said.
Mitchell pulled out a note and dropped it into the bin. “No, it’s not. The money is forged. Either you were meant to be caught when you tried to spend it, or you were never going to get the chance to do so. You’re disposable.” He dropped another note into the bin. “Or perhaps the person behind this doesn’t care. They set you up. Who hired you? What’s his name?”
“It wasn’t…” Frobisher began, blinked, and stopped. “I can’t.”
“You can’t? I bet I can guess why. There was a demonstration. Something emphatic and violent that came with a promise that you’d face the same fate if you ever mentioned his name. Yes?”
Frobisher shook her head.
Mitchell dropped the rest of the banknotes into the bin. “We only need one of you to talk. This person you’re afraid of will assume you all did. One of you will get the chance at a new life, the rest will go to prison, where you’ll wait for the day he finally gets to you.”
“Wait. You’ll let me go free?” Frobisher asked.
“That depends on what you can tell us,” Mitchell said.
“If you let me go, I’ll tell you everything.”
“That’s not how it works. You know that,” Riley said.
“I want a boat that will take me to Europe or Africa. I’ll never come back, I promise.”
“You’re that scared of him?” Mitchell asked.
“It’s not—” she began and again stopped. “Just let me go, please. I promise you’ll never see me again.”
“You know the game. You have to start by telling me something. So, let’s begin with what you were doing in that house.”
“Waiting,” she said.
“Since when?”
“August.”
“You were recruited at the Marquis?” Riley asked.
The woman looked startled for a moment, then her veil of composure returned. “That’s right.”
“What were you waiting for?” Mitchell asked.
“I…” She shook her head. “No. I can’t.”
“Then you force us to draw our own assumptions,” Mitchell said. “Based on those assault rifles and that ammunition, there’s only one reason for you to be in that house. Maybe you call it revolution, and maybe the court will call it terrorism, but I say it’s mass murder.”
“No, it wasn’t that,” she said. “I don’t know why those guns were there. I really don’t.”
“Then what do you know?” Riley asked. “Why were you hired?”
“For a robbery,” Frobisher said.
“A robbery? What were you going to steal?” Mitchell asked.
“I don’t know. We were going to get the details closer to the time. There was a window of opportunity sometime between September and December, and we were waiting until it arrived.”
“What about the printing press?” Riley asked. “Those pamphlets were revolutionary in nature.”
“I don’t know. I think they were to be part of the distraction.”
“Distraction? During the robbery you mean?” Riley asked.
“I think so. That’s what the men who brought the press said.”
“When was this?” Mitchell asked.
“A week ago. We were to print out ten thousand of those leaflets.”
“What else did he say?” Riley asked.
“He wasn’t talking to me,” Frobisher said. “He didn’t even know I was listening. There were two of them. They brought the press along with the food. As they were bringing it into the house, he said that it would be a good distraction.”
“Who was this man? What was his name?” Riley asked.
“I don’t know. But I’d seen him before, and he had a face anyone would remember. It was all scarred, like someone had carved lines into it.”
“A distraction,” Mitchell said. He gave the still smoking metal bin a kick. “To distract who from what? And what could they possibly want to steal?”
“If they wanted to steal anything,” Davis said.
Frobisher had stopped talking and had been returned to the cells. Weaver, Ruth, Davis, and Simon had joined Mitchell and Riley in the interrogation room.
“You shouldn’t have destroyed evidence,” Weaver said.
“I didn’t,” Mitchell replied. “The notes we found in the house are still down in the evidence locker. Those,” he gave the bin another kick, “all came from the Mint. Since they’re due to be incinerated, I can’t see what harm there is in burning them here and now.”
“There are procedures,” Weaver said.
“Do they really matter?” Mitchell replied.
“She identified Emmitt, at least,” Ruth quickly added, sensing that the truce currently existing between the two officers was about to break. “And she’s not scared of him. I mean, she’s scared of someone, but it’s not him. In fact, I think it’s a woman. You noticed how she automatically interrupted whenever the captain referred to the person as male?”
“Then there’s the fact there were women there in the first place,” Mitchell said. “If our mastermind isn’t a woman, he’s at least an equal opportunities criminal. What?” he added, addressing Weaver. “I can see you’re thinking something. Do you have someone in mind?”
“Possibly. Wallace’s wife. I have nothing on her, but there’s no way she couldn’t have known about her husband’s plans. When I interviewed her, she didn’t seem surprised. She’s as much of a politician as him, and she was conveniently out of the city at the time. But I wouldn’t have said she was intimidating.”
“Could we get a picture of her, or a sketch?” Mitchell asked. “We could show it to Frobisher and see what her reaction is?”
“Certainly,” Weaver said. “Do you think the others will be more responsive?”
“In time,” Mitchell said. “The question is whether we have time. Cutting those telegraph wires, organising the Luddites for some kind of public demonstration, it’s building up to something. Then there’s this lot, waiting for a robbery with far more weapons than they need.”
“She said it would be sometime between September and December,” Weaver said. “Ned Ludd mentioned the fifth of November. That must be when it’s going to happen.”
“There was only a week’s worth of food in that house,” Mitchell said. “Fairmont said there were five others. What if Emmitt decides it’s easier to bring his plans forward than to resupply them? But what are those plans?”
“Tell the newspaper,” Ruth said.
“I’m sorry?” Weaver asked.
“Tell them to print the story about the counterfeiting. If Emmitt’s hired people with forged currency, maybe they’ll read the story and decide to quit.”
“I didn’t see any newspapers in the house,” Mitchell said.
“But that doesn’t mean all the houses are like that,” Ruth said. “Someone, somewhere, who’s working for Emmitt will read it.”
“But they won’t come forward,” Simon said. “You saw how terrified Frobisher was.”
“Maybe not,” Ruth said. “Maybe they’ll disappear, and if we can’t catch them, that might be the best we can hope for. Besides, people have a right to know what’s going on. How many people saw that balloon crash? How many Marines were involved today, or on duty when the Prime Minister was shot? They won’t keep quiet forever. Rumours will start, and when the truth does get out, people won’t trust the government. Wasn’t that what Wallace wanted, for all faith to be lost in those running the country?”
“She has a point. The truth should be told,” Mitchell said. “And,” he added, “it will hurt Emmitt more than us.”
“I can suggest it to the Prime Minister,” Weaver said, “but the decision will be hers.”
“That leaves Fairmont,” Mitchell said. “What kind of deal can we offer him?”
“There’s a lighthouse near Thurso,” Weaver said. “It has two keepers who work the light, and twenty Marines who guard the facility. It’s twenty miles from the Naval dockyard and is in constant contact by telegraph.”
“The far north of Scotland? That would fit Fairmont’s criteria of being remote,” Mitchell said. “Double the Marines and arrange for a ship to sail within hailing distance at least once a day. Can they hold out if they’re attacked?”
“For at least a week,” Weaver said. “It’s not an easy place to reach, especially at this time of year.”
“I’ll get him to give us another address before we leave, and the rest when we arrive in Scotland,” Mitchell said. “If we send it back by telegraph we can have all properties searched within forty-eight hours. It’s not as immediate as I’d like, but we can’t lean on him too hard, not if we want to trust the information he gives us. It’ll take me a few hours to arrange the train, which should give you enough time to get the Marines in place to raid another property.”
“You?” Weaver asked. “You’re taking him north?”
“My days of kicking doors down are over,” Mitchell said, pointing at the bloody stain on his shirt. “The Marines can handle that. Riley and Davis can run the interviews of these suspects. I want to look Fairmont in the eyes when he tells us whatever he knows so I can be sure as I can that he’s not lying. Deering, you’re coming with me.”
“To Scotland?” she asked.
“All the way.”
Chapter 6
All Stations North
4th October
Maggie’s loud snore brought Ruth back to consciousness. She tried blinking the room into focus. She realised she couldn’t because it was almost pitch-black. There was a fading glow from the sitting-room fire, but the candles had long since gone out. She added another log to the grate, picked up the fallen blanket, and gently placed it back on her mother before going to the front door. There was no one outside. Moonlight caught the hands of the clock and told her it was three a.m.
Mitchell had told her to go home and pack, and that a carriage would be sent for her as soon as the arrangements for a train had been made. No one had arrived by midnight, and Ruth had said she’d stay in the front room to wait. Maggie had insisted on staying with her.
Two minutes past three.
She hated that time. No good thoughts came between one and five, only the demons of the past and the fears of the future. It was a time to sleep, yet she knew she wouldn’t be able. She grabbed the kettle and went outside. An unseen downpour had doused the cracked paving. The air was cold and damp but, knowing that warmth was only a few feet away, it wasn’t unpleasant. She pulled the lever and turned the tap, listening as the hiss of air in the pipes sent nocturnal visitors scurrying back into the hedgerow.
There were many things wrong with their home. In fact, there were so many it was easy to come up with a list of the things that were right. At the top of that short list was that it was the only home she knew, but it wouldn’t be for much longer.
Another letter had arrived. The school would close before the end of this academic year. No exact date was given, but Maggie’s job would go with it. Her mother’s only response was that it was long past time for her to retire.
Ruth took the kettle back inside, hanging it on the hook over the fire. She stoked the embers until flames danced around its base.
The question Riley had asked came back to her. Did she want to stay in the police? The more she thought about it, the more certain she became that the answer was no. That left the bigger question of what she should do instead. Go to America, perhaps. The ambassador had said he owed her a favour. Presumably that could be stretched into the recommendation for a job doing… what? The water in the kettle came to a boil before she’d come up with an answer.
The carriage arrived just after four and was driven by a familiar hulking shape.
“Gregory?” Ruth asked, too tired to formulate a proper question.
“It’s a matter of whom I can trust,” Mitchell said, jumping down from the back. “Have you got everything you need?”
“Clothes for a couple of days,” Ruth said, hefting a bag.
“And take this,” Maggie said, holding out a bag. “Food for the journey. Did you pack your scarf?”
“Mum—” Ruth began.
“It’s cold in Scotland,” Maggie said, speaking over her daughter. “Go and fetch it. And your gloves. You’ll keep her safe, Henry?”
“I will.”
Maggie looked like she wanted to say something more. She didn’t.
“Is Gregory coming with us?” Ruth asked as the horses’ hooves broke the morning’s silence.
“To Scotland? No. It’s just you, me, and the Marines,” Mitchell said. “Fairmont too, but I count him as baggage. I want as few people as possible knowing the specifics of what we’re doing, that’s why this has taken so long to organise. Realistically, and no matter what Clarke says to the contrary, there’s no way of keeping Fairmont’s removal secret from the people working in the embassy. Do you remember all of those crates in the lobby? I don’t know who’s doing the heavy lifting, but I’d bet it’s casual labour hired because they were cheap. They’ll talk, and Emmitt will be listening, so he’ll know Fairmont’s gone but not to where. The driver and stoker for the train will arrive at work thinking they’ve a normal day ahead of them. Rebecca Cavendish knows, of course, as she had to arrange for our train to disappear.”
“Disappear?” Ruth asked.
“Of course,” Mitchell said. “There’s going to be a smoke-belching beast driving through dozens of country stations without taking on passengers or goods. People are going to ask why. There needs to be a plausible reason, one the station managers believe is the truth. It’s the same for the depots where we’ll stop for water. They’ll want to know why a train fu
ll of Marines is driving through their peaceful neck of the woods. It took us a few hours of scheming, but we’ve got it all worked out. The only truly dangerous part will be moving Fairmont from the embassy to the station. That’s why we’ve got Gregory.”
“You’re expecting trouble?” Ruth asked.
“Always,” Mitchell said. “Up until now we’ve been playing Emmitt’s game and were always two moves behind. Yesterday we did something that will force him to change his plans. A natural response would be to seek revenge. But if he acts in haste, we’ve a chance he’ll make some catastrophic mistake. It’s not much to pin his capture on, but it might be enough.”
Ruth leaned back in her seat. The shadowy fields and dark warehouses took on a far more sinister appearance as those words sunk in.
There were more Marines on duty in the embassy than there had been the day before. It was just light enough to make out a new gun emplacement on the roof. She wondered how many other guards were deliberately hidden from view.
The gate was pulled back, and the carriage let into the courtyard. Agent Clarke was waiting for them.
“Do you have any more intel?” Clarke asked.
“Not since we last spoke,” Mitchell said. “You really upped the security here.”
“If they’re planning to make us the target, they’ll regret it,” Clarke said.
“Is Fairmont ready?” Mitchell asked.
“I picked his clothes myself,” Clarke said.
The comment baffled Ruth until Fairmont shuffled outside. A Marine was in front, another behind, with two more either side. The prisoner’s hands and feet were manacled with a thin chain connecting ankles to wrists. It was the suit that was most striking. It was of a lurid, orange chequered pattern. Clearly of old-world make, Ruth marvelled for a moment that anyone had ever made such a hideous garment, let alone worn it voluntarily.
