by Frank Tayell
“The Americans. Fairmont worked for the ambassador, didn’t he? So maybe that’s who’s behind all this.”
“But the ambassador let us take Fairmont away. He could have shipped the man back to the U.S. and we’d have never known.”
“Governments were at war in the old-world, sabotage and insurrection are the kind of things they used to organise.”
Ruth thought about that. “No,” she said. “Emmitt wants power.”
“Does he? How do you know?” Simon asked. “And who’s to say he’s the one behind all of this. I mean, if it was me, I’d send other people out to do all the work.”
“You mean this woman that Frobisher is terrified of?” Ruth said. “Then why haven’t we seen her? Maybe she doesn’t exist.” But Simon was right in that there was no point trekking the four miles out to the grain depot. She started walking again, this time letting Simon lead the way.
She didn’t know this part of the city. Before she’d joined the academy she’d seldom ventured far from The Acre. Like most of the south coast, the area they walked through had once been a residential district, but here the homes had been turned into workshops. Ramshackle extensions had been thrown up in back gardens, and then over the earlier extensions themselves. Chimneys erupted from walls and roofs. Weird scents filled an air already crowded with the sound of hammering, sawing, and occasional swearing.
“Okay, so who benefits? You’re right, that’s the key,” she said. “Isaac said something about politicians and about how this was about control.”
“He did?”
“A while ago,” Ruth said.
“You’ve seen him recently?” Simon asked.
“Not really,” Ruth said. “He’s not important.” She’d told Simon about Isaac, though in general terms. She’d not said that Isaac had facilitated the escape of Mrs Standage and her family. Standage had supplied the counterfeiters with the designs of the banknotes because her husband and child had been taken hostage. Suspecting someone in the police department couldn’t be trusted, Mitchell had arranged for Isaac to find somewhere safe for them. Precisely where that was, Ruth wasn’t sure. She decided to move the conversation along. “A politician could be behind it. But politicians aren’t…” She trailed off.
She’d reached an alley. At the far end was a figure, and there was something striking about him. He was dressed almost identically to Ned Ludd. Ruth froze, but only for a second, and then she ran. The man turned toward her. His expression twisted from self-satisfied glee to shock.
“Stop!” Ruth yelled. The man dropped something he’d been holding in his left hand. He still had something in his right.
“Don’t!” she yelled, fumbling with the button on her holster. She vaguely heard the sound of shattering glass. The man was turning toward her, his hand swivelling with him. Before he could bring it to bear, she slammed into him, grabbed a fistful of dank wool, and shoved him against the wall. She drew her revolver and pressed the barrel against his forehead.
“Who are you?” she hissed. “Who are you!” This time she screamed the words into the man’s face.
“Please!” he whimpered, his voice high pitched and shrill.
“Who are you?”
“Ruth! Ruth!” It was Simon. He had a hand on her arm. “Let him go. Please. Let him go!”
Ruth blinked. She saw the man’s face, and saw that it wasn’t a man, but a boy not much younger than she was. Slowly, she lowered the gun. She stepped back, and she saw the wall. She raised her gun again. “Cuff him,” she said.
“What?” Simon said.
“Look at the wall.”
The object in the man’s hand had been a paintbrush. A jar of cheap paint lay smashed on the cobbles. On the wall were four letters, ‘Ned L’ with the ‘L’ painted backward.
“Did you get all that?” Mitchell asked as he came into the observation room. On the other side of the one-way glass, the suspect shivered.
“Yes, sir,” Ruth said. She’d been transcribing the boy’s statement as Mitchell had conducted the interview.
“He’s terrified,” Mitchell said. “But he’s talking, and so far he seems to know about as much as anyone else we’ve spoken to. Is there anything you want to tell me about the arrest?”
“No, sir,” she said. There was, or at least there was something that she wanted to talk to someone about. There had been a brief moment where she’d wanted to pull the trigger. Resisting that impulse had been the hardest thing she’d ever done. “What’s going to happen to him?”
“We’ll hold him until we’ve raided those addresses he’s given us, and then let him go.”
“But…” She looked at the boy on the other side of the glass. He looked scared, lost, and alone. “Emmitt will kill him,” Ruth said. “And if he doesn’t that gang boss of his will.”
“What would you do instead?” Mitchell asked.
“I… I don’t know. Keep him here?”
“You don’t have the authority to do that. Nor do I, unfortunately. But I’ll speak to Weaver and see if something can be arranged.” Mitchell picked up the transcript. “You could do with some handwriting lessons,” he said, peering at the page. “Let’s see. Here, his name. There’s only one ‘I’ in Ibn. So, he’s Sadiq Ibn Faraud, a member of The Spade Boys, a fledgling gang based on the east side of the docks. He was given the paint, the brush, and a pound note with the instruction to paint that message up on walls across the city.”
“He wasn’t paid with a twenty-pound note,” Ruth said.
“No. Let’s hope it doesn’t mean the man has started printing banknotes in other denominations.” He looked at the account. “Sadiq was told not to return until the jar was empty. You missed the bit about how the clothing was given to him by the same man who gave them paint, brush, slogan, and money. Marshal Johnson. He doesn’t know if that’s a first name or a title, but the man is running that gang.”
“No, here.” Ruth pointed. “He said that Johnson ran the entire docks.”
“He doesn’t, but I’m sure that’s what Johnson told Sadiq.”
“Is that where we go now?” Ruth asked. “To the docks, to arrest this man?”
“No. Not yet. I doubt anyone will notice that Sadiq hasn’t returned, not today. I doubt this Johnson will know any more than Frobisher or Turnbull. Johnson… Johnson… Riley was looking for a man by that name who’d gone missing from the Marquis. It’s a common name, but maybe it’s the same guy. Either way, I think he’ll have been paid to get the slogans painted without knowing why. You heard the kid, he’s only wearing those clothes because they were better than the rags he had before.”
“So why paint the slogans?” Ruth asked.
“To have the name ‘Ned Ludd’ fixed in people’s minds. You remember those placards we found in that house. If a public demonstration by the Luddites is part of Emmitt’s plan, then it will work a lot better if people are familiar with Ned Ludd’s name. Of course that means Emmitt’s still going ahead, but we don’t know with what.”
“If we’re not going to arrest Johnson, what are we doing?” she asked.
“What was the other address he gave? The one where he said the meeting would be held?”
“The Pokesdown Processing Plant,” Ruth said, pointing at the transcript. “Do you know it?”
“I know it was shut down in July. They lost too much fish during the heat wave, so they moved to a location closer to the quays. You could fit a hundred people in there. Twice the number if the equipment’s been removed. That’s where we go. But not as a raid, initially we’ll go in undercover. If they had to pay this kid to paint the signs, maybe they’re paying the rest of the demonstrators, and maybe this, tonight, is when they tell them where to go. We’ll have the Marines on standby, in case they guess who we are.”
“Undercover? I should go and change.”
“You should, but I’ve a different assignment for you.”
“You have?”
“Riley’s got some suspicions about Rupert
Pine. He’s holding a public meeting for his constituents. Riley’s going. Davis is backup. I want you to go, too.”
“But—”
“Those are your orders,” Mitchell said. “Go and get Riley, let’s see if Sadiq’s description of Johnson matches the man she was looking for.”
Chapter 10
Public Meeting
“Emma-Louise Tallincourt. Nothing incriminating found,” Ruth read aloud from the summary Captain Mitchell had written on the search of the home of the missing train driver. “It’s not very detailed.”
“But it sums it up,” Sergeant Davis said. For once he wasn’t wearing his black old-world uniform, but a pair of shinny-at-the-knees trousers and a tweed jacket trimmed with almost matching leather. “And it’s what we’d expect. These are professionals. They’ve been told not to leave clues behind, but what clues would we expect to find?”
A coin stamped with a backward ‘L’, Ruth thought, but if the driver had one, no doubt it would be on her person.
Like Davis, she was in civilian clothes, though hers were distinctly more ragged, and made even more so in comparison to Sergeant Riley.
“Turn around,” Riley said. Ruth did. “No. That gun’s too obvious. Here.” She opened a drawer in her desk and took out a compact pistol, a third of the size of Ruth’s service revolver. “Eight rounds in the magazine. Safety is here. Two spare clips.”
Ruth took the weapon. Riley was wearing a short coat, medium height heels, and high-waisted trousers topped off with more jewellery than Ruth had seen anyone wear before in real-life.
“You’re staring,” Riley said.
“It’s… you look nice,” Ruth said diplomatically.
“No, I don’t, but I’ll stand out,” Riley said. “That’s the point. When I went to see Rupert Pine, he got defensive. He claimed not to know about the Luddites. I’m certain he was lying. He said I should come to this meeting so he could prove he was a friend of the working woman.” Riley grinned. “And the moment he said it, I could see he wanted to take the words back. That’s when I asked about Ned Ludd, and that was when he insisted I should come tonight. He was evading the question.”
“And how big a place is the White Hart?” Davis asked.
“Two bars downstairs, one meeting room upstairs that can seat about forty,” Riley said. “Pine told me he was the least radical scheduled to speak, but that he was the voice of reason. A moderating influence between the forces of labour and economy that drive our nation. To put it another way, he’ll say anything to anyone if it’ll help him get elected.” She opened her purse, took out a snub-nosed pistol, and checked it was loaded. “He’ll notice me. So will everyone else. They’ll watch me, or the speakers. Deering, you keep an eye on anyone who doesn’t. He’ll have told them I’m coming. They’ll know I’m a cop, so they’ll try not to be noticed.”
“But won’t they recognise me?” Ruth asked. “I mean, won’t Emmitt have given them a description?”
“Probably. Which should make them easier to spot. Davis, you’re—”
“Downstairs, making occasionally dissatisfied comments about working conditions. If I hear a shot, I’ll come upstairs. If I don’t, I’ll keep an eye on the people watching the people watching her watch you.”
“And then what?” Ruth asked. “I mean, what’s the signal going to be for us to arrest them?”
“We won’t be making any arrests,” Riley said. “Not tonight. We know these people aren’t afraid to kill, and there will be too many innocent civilians in the pub. We want leverage on Pine. If Emmitt was planning on using the politician in his plans, then our presence tonight should make him a liability.”
“And you think he’ll crack?” Davis asked.
“Easily.”
What Ruth thought was that Riley was being kept away from the real action as much as she was.
The moment Ruth opened the door to the pub, a wall of sound hit here. Partially deafened, she shouldered her way through the densely packed crowd. She caught sight of Davis, a pint glass in one hand, a dart in the other, seemingly engrossed in some half-shouted, half-laughed argument with a group by the dartboard.
“Excuse me, excuse me,” Ruth muttered, more to herself than to the people she nudged, pushed, and in one case, kicked, as she tried to find her way to the staircase near the door to the rear bar. A man stood in front of it.
“You lost?” he asked.
“I’m here for the meeting,” Ruth said.
He eyed her suspiciously. “You sure?”
“Like I’d come to a place like this for any other reason,” she replied tartly.
The man grunted, but stepped out of the way. Ruth went upstairs. The meeting room was as crowded as the pub downstairs. Ruth elbowed her way to a spot behind the rearmost row of seats from where she could make out the back of Riley’s head.
As casually as she could, she surveyed the room. There were seven rows of chairs, with people standing in the aisle either side. At the front was a lectern with five more chairs behind it. To one side was a door, with another man standing guard by it. Next to him was a young man, more a boy, Ruth thought, in clothing with too many pockets. It was almost like the style that Isaac and his followers wore, except the colours were far more vibrant. A flat piece of card stuck out of the brim of his hat, and in his hand was a notepad. He looked more out of place than Ruth felt, yet the man seemed more relaxed than anyone else in the room. They were a mix of men and women. Most looked like they’d come straight from work. A few were staring fixedly at Riley, but the rest were talking quietly, or simply waiting with varying degrees of patience. The atmosphere was expectant.
Hoping to eavesdrop on one of those muted conversations, she inched forward a step, but her foot kicked against the leg of the chair in front. Its occupant, an old man, turned around and saw her.
“Here you go, love,” he said, standing up. “You take my chair.” His accent was thick from one of those northern towns now lost to time.
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Ruth said.
“Not at all, lass. It’s not right for a healthy man to sit when a woman is standing.” This last was said in a far louder voice, and was clearly directed at the young men sitting near him. They kept their eyes studiously ahead as the old man shuffled into the aisle, but a lot of others in the room turned to look.
“Thank you,” Ruth said, quickly taking the man’s seat, and keeping her eyes down in the hope she might evade the sudden and unwanted attention. Before she dared looked up again, she heard a noise from the front. The door by the stage had opened. A tall man entered the room first. He had broad shoulders, and wide arms barely hidden by a thin shirt. A man in a suit followed. By the way he paused to smile at Riley, Ruth took him to be Rupert Pine. A woman in an austere black dress followed. There was a second woman in the doorway. She had golden-white hair pinned close to her head and an apron strapped around her waist. She surveyed the room before pulling the door closed with her on the other side. Someone who worked in the pub, Ruth thought, trying to remember if she’d been behind the bar earlier.
“Brothers. Sisters. Welcome,” the man in shirtsleeves said. “For those of you who don’t know me, my name is Lucian Fredericks. Tonight we’re joined by the Member of Parliament for Milford, Rupert Pine, and by Grace Jollie from the League of Tomorrow. They’ll be giving their own views about the future that awaits us after the next election, and as you can imagine those views are very different.”
There was soft laughter from half of the room. Ruth ignored it, trying to find a position from which she could see Riley, but the people in the row in front were too tall for her to see over.
“Rationing is coming to an end,” Fredericks said. “And when it does, the real struggle will begin. Our estimates are that we produce fifty percent more food than we consume.”
Pine harrumphed in disagreement.
“Fifty percent,” Fredericks repeated. “Without food being shipped to America, should our farmers and fishers still meet t
hese absurd quotas? Where will they find employment? And what will that do to the wages in the workshops and factories? Britain was a nation built on inequality. For twenty years we have struggled together, but the economic divide has only deepened. The haves have everything, and the have-nots have next to nothing. It will get worse unless we act.” Ruth leaned forward. “When you get to the ballot box, you will have a choice. Let this inequality grow, or vote for real change.” Ruth leaned back.
She wondered who the man was. He’d given himself no real introduction, and from the atmosphere in the room he didn’t need one. Everyone knew him and knew what he would say. The only exception, other than the young man in his bright, many-pocketed jacket, was a slovenly man in a green woollen cap, standing with his back to the wall, eight feet from the stage. He had his eyes fixed on the front row. Was he watching Riley?
There was a muted roar of agreement from the room, and Ruth realised she’d missed some key part of Fredericks’ speech.
“And that is the truth of it,” Fredericks continued. “It may seem like the struggle is coming to an end, that life is going to get easier, but the real fight has only just begun. I would like you to bear that in mind as I welcome tonight’s first speaker, Mr Rupert Pine, MP for Milford and Christchurch South.”
Pine stood up.
“Thank you,” he said, shaking the man’s hand, before taking a position behind the podium. “Thank you,” he said again, and paused as if waiting for applause. It didn’t come. “Your figures are wrong.” There was a hiss of disapproval from the crowd. “I’m sorry, but they are. Not all food aid gets shipped to the Americas. In fact, when you consider the size of the planet and how few settlements we’re in contact with, our efforts amount to very little. Last year we shipped supplies to forty-eight communities around the Mediterranean and West African coast. This year it was to forty-six. Two of those communities disappeared. They are gone. The inhabitants murdered or fled. That is the true reality of our situation. Yes, we are at a time of change, a moment that will decide the future, but it is not the future of us, or this country, or even our children, but the fate of the world itself. I have some figures for you…”
