by Frank Tayell
Ruth relaxed a little as Pine began reading from a list. She’d been right. Whatever Riley may have thought, this meeting was a way for Mitchell to get them both out of the way. She tuned back into the speech, but there was no mention of technology, or of Ned Ludd, or anything that might connect him to Emmitt.
“That then,” Pine said, bringing his speech to an end, “is the decision ahead of us. Comfort today, or a future for the planet itself.”
There was no applause.
“Thank you, Mr Pine,” Fredericks said, taking the podium again. “Some interesting points. For an alternative perspective, I would like to introduce Miss Grace Jollie.”
The woman took the stage.
“Waste!” she said. “Waste!” she said again. Ruth wondered if the woman would go for a third. “It is the bane of our species,” Jollie said, and began an impassioned speech that Ruth struggled to follow. It was only when the woman launched into a point-by-point attack on Pine’s parliamentary voting record that she understood. The woman was announcing herself as a candidate in opposition to Pine. Ruth couldn’t work out what her policies exactly were beyond that it had something to do with abolishing rationing and overseas food-aid, while increasing wages for farmers and cutting prices for everyone else. From the audience’s reaction, they’d known this woman was going to speak. From their perfectly timed cheers of agreement and hisses of disapproval, they knew exactly what she was going to say.
After twenty minutes, Fredericks did the merciful thing and closed the meeting. Pine rushed from the stage without another glance at Riley.
Ruth stayed in her seat as people filed out of the room. She wanted to see who else might linger rather than hurry down to the bar. The man to her left stood, and Ruth was forced to do the same, joining the slow shuffle as people headed downstairs. She found she was standing next to the old man who’d given her his seat.
“Was that what you were expecting?” he asked.
“I’m not really sure what I was expecting,” Ruth said, finding herself answering truthfully. “Perhaps more about ordinary people. It was all a lot of words to say very little.”
“That’s politicians for you,” the old man said. The queue for the door shuffled a few paces forward. Ruth looked around and saw Riley disappear through the door at the front. There were too many people in the line behind her for Ruth to follow.
“Looking for someone?” the old man asked.
“For Pine,” Ruth said. “He’s my MP, but this was the first time I’d ever seen him.”
“It was better in the old-world,” the man said. “Even if they didn’t go door-to-door, at least you had posters so you could recognise them in the supermarket.” He gave a low chuckle. “That’s what I used to do – ambush them when they were shopping. They couldn’t get away then, you see. Can’t abandon your trolley in the middle of an— ah.” He gave that sigh of someone who had temporarily forgotten how the world had changed. “But we can’t have the old world back,” the man said. “As much as we might want it. It’s too dangerous.”
Ruth’s ears pricked up as she shuffled another few feet closer to the door.
“What do you mean?” she asked. “The AIs?”
“For a start. But then there’s the inequality of wealth. Fredericks is right about that. It takes everyone’s labour to pull in a harvest, so is it right that the landowner gets more than a fair share? Particularly when the only requirement to own land was to file a claim a decade ago?”
“You have a point,” Ruth said, thinking of how her own landlord had been foisted on them.
“Did you notice the journalist?” the old man asked.
“The young man with the notepad?”
“That’s him. Tomorrow they’ll print an article saying that there was a small meeting at which Pine spoke, and that there was a spirited debate. That’s all they’ll say. Tonight’s meeting won’t make a blind bit of difference. It’s not how a democracy should be run.”
“Is there an alternative?” Ruth asked. She glanced down, but the man was wearing distinctly old-world clothing, complete with metal eyelets on his mirror-polished shoes.
“Jollie is good and honest, but far too opinionated to win an election. There are other candidates. A few of them will speak tomorrow. Do you know the old supermarket near the roundabout at the end of Spencer Avenue? Tomorrow night, at eight p.m. Come and hear them speak if for no other reason than one of them will be representing you in government.”
They’d reached the stairs. Another meeting? It was the thinnest of leads, like attending this one had been.
“Maybe,” Ruth said.
“Think about it,” the old man said. “And would you be a dear and help me down these stairs? They’re a bit steep.”
Ruth helped the man down to the pub. He asked if she was staying for a drink. She looked around and saw Davis. The sergeant downed the last of his pint, laid the glass down, and headed toward the door. Ruth did the same.
“It wasn’t anything important,” Ruth said when she met Davis in an alley two streets away. “It was just an attack on the MP. There was only one person not really paying attention, a man in a green woollen cap. About thirty, unshaven, beige shirt—”
“Droop to the left eyelid, walked with his right foot turned slightly inwards, wearing a belt on which he’s had to punch out two new holes,” Davis finished. “He was serving behind the bar when I entered the pub and disappeared into the back before you arrived.”
“So he wasn’t interested in what was being said because he works there? Then I really didn’t learn anything tonight. Oh, except that there’s going to be another meeting tomorrow. It’s going to be some more candidates who are standing against Pine.”
“In an old supermarket?” Davis asked.
“That’s right. You heard of that?”
“You hear a lot more in a busy pub than a quiet meeting,” Davis said.
“It’s probably not worth going,” Ruth said. “We’re not likely to find anything there.”
“That depends on how hard we look, but as to whether it’s worth us turning up, that’s up to the captain.”
“Hmm.” Ruth turned around, looking back at the now distant pub. “We should wait for Riley.”
“She’s already gone home.”
“She has?”
“And you might as well do the same. Maybe tomorrow we’ll turn up some better leads.”
There were always more leads, Ruth thought as she walked through the dark streets. What good did following them do? The investigation was going nowhere.
She splashed into a puddle. Water seeped through the cracked leather, enveloping her foot in a damp cocoon. Perfect, she thought. A light drizzle had started while she was in the pub. It wasn’t heavy, but it had a persistence that suggested it wouldn’t stop before dawn. She’d be soaked by the time she got home.
Pulling her collar up, she squelched down the road, turning her eyes to the occasional pools of light ahead of her. She wasn’t alone on the street. Others hurried along with more haste than she. One, about fifty feet ahead of her, stepped into a pool of light cast from an un-shuttered window. On his head was a green woollen cap. It was the barman. He’d probably finished his shift and was heading home. Probably. Ruth slowed her pace to match his. It wasn’t as if he was being furtive. When he took the next road to the right, Ruth followed.
It was a narrow road with cream-coloured houses on either side. He didn’t go inside, he kept walking. He took a left. She followed. He took a right. She followed. He took another left, and when Ruth turned the corner, he’d disappeared.
This road was completely dark. She took a step forward. Then another. There was a vague shape at the far end that might have been the next junction. But then again, it might not.
He must have gone into a building. Which? She looked up, hoping to spot some errant wisp of smoke from a chimney, but the rain was falling too hard to tell.
She took another step down the alley.
T
here was a splash in a puddle behind her.
She spun around.
A pair of figures loomed in the road’s mouth. One massive, one of regular height, both male. Her fingers caught in her coat as she reached for the concealed gun. A square of light appeared in one of the figure’s hands.
“A dark night,” Isaac said, shining the light first on his own face, and then on Gregory’s, standing next to him.
“What are you doing?” Ruth asked.
“When we first met, didn’t Henry say that I had you followed? He was right.”
“You were following me? Why?” she asked.
“Because it’s a miserable night, and if I wasn’t following you, I’d have no reason to leave my warm home,” Isaac said. Which, like most of the replies he gave, was no real answer.
“I was following a man in a green hat,” she said.
“Yes?”
“He disappeared down this road.”
“Evidently.”
“Can you help me find him?” she asked.
“By knocking on each door in turn? And what would you do if he answered? What would you ask him?”
Ruth stared at Isaac, then turned away to look down the dark street. There really was no sign of the man. What would she do if the man opened the door? What would she do if someone else did? She could picture herself storming a house, capturing Emmitt and all the others, but knew reality was far from that fantasy. Even if the man did open the door and allowed himself to be taken in for questioning, what precisely did she want to ask him?
She pulled her collar up higher, marched past Isaac and Gregory, and headed back toward The Acre. She didn’t even bother checking whether the two men were still following her.
Chapter 11
Suspects
7th October
“Name?” Ruth asked.
“Edward Roberts,” the man said.
“Occupation?”
“Carpenter. I’ve a shop on Prentice Lane, and I should be there now. What crime have I committed?”
That was a good question. Like the other one hundred and forty men and women in the hall, Roberts had been arrested at the previous night’s meeting in the processing plant. Weaver had ordered the Marines in, the building sealed, and everyone there brought into custody. Mitchell had been furious, and that had provided Ruth with some relief until the captain told her she would be processing the suspects.
“Home address?” she asked.
“Above my shop.”
“On Prentice Lane?”
“Yeah, so since when is it a crime to go to a political meeting?”
“That’s why you went there, is it?” she asked.
“To hear people speak. Are you saying free-speech doesn’t mean anything anymore?”
“I’m saying that I have to ask you these questions,” Ruth said, holding up the piece of paper on which they were written. “Once I’ve taken your fingerprints and we’ve confirmed your address, you’ll be free to go.”
“You haven’t said why.”
“Why? Because it’s what I’ve been told to do!” Ruth snapped.
“Just following orders, is it?”
Ruth gritted her teeth. “And how did you hear about the meeting?” she asked, returning to the questions on her list.
An hour but only four more citizens later, Ruth took a break and went searching for tea. She found Mitchell sipping a cup of coffee in a small room with wide windows that looked out onto the hall.
“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” she said.
“No,” Mitchell replied. “Weaver insisted on rounding everyone up. Her argument is that it can’t hurt.”
“Unless part of Emmitt’s plan is having us too busy scrabbling around that we don’t have time to look for any real clues,” Ruth said.
“It’s a possibility,” Mitchell said, “but it’s out of my hands. Out of Weaver’s too. The PM took a turn for the worse yesterday morning. The wound in her shoulder is infected. She’ll live, but Deputy Prime Minister Atherton’s running the country now. The only thing stopping him from being sworn in is that it would require the full sitting of Parliament.”
“Which would have happened if the assassination had gone ahead,” Ruth said.
“Yep.”
“And that would be the perfect time to use an explosive to kill all the politicians?”
“Precisely.”
“But that would have happened long before the fifth of November,” Ruth said. “Wouldn’t it?
“Which makes me even more worried. The Speaker suggested that the House sits in secret one evening to approve him. The Leader of the Opposition proposed appointing a monarch and returning to the old system where a politician was invited to form a government. Atherton’s plan of waiting is the more palatable solution, but if there was any room left in my soul, I’d be worrying about that as well.” He took a sip from his mug. “But I don’t. Atherton went north this morning. He’s going to take over the negotiations with Albion. Actually, from what Rebecca Cavendish told me, he’s going to end the negotiations with an ultimatum. Either they agree to all terms, or he’s going to send the Marines in to destroy them.”
“Because they were colluding with Emmitt?”
“Because they might have been. He’ll promise thunder and war, and we’ll probably get it.”
“That’s not good,” Ruth said.
“No.”
“You got that from Rebecca?” Ruth asked. “How did she know?”
“Because people at train stations don’t think the railway workers are listening,” Mitchell said. “Anyway, Atherton’s last orders to the Home Secretary were that everyone connected to this crime in any way, no matter how small, should be arrested. Hence this madhouse.” He waved a hand at the hall.
“Were there any real suspects at the meeting?” Ruth asked.
“Not really. The man organising it was Silas Greenbaum. He’s anti-government regardless of their policies, but he wouldn’t do anything to harm anyone.”
“You know him?”
“I do. His is a sad tale. His wife died in the Blackout, but his six kids survived. They’ve all died in the years since. Disease. Accidents. The last, the second from oldest, joined the Marines. He was killed by pirates during a survey mission around the Mediterranean eight years ago. Silas was making the rough woollen tunics and trousers, and selling them at the meetings.”
“Who to?”
“Anyone who’d buy them. He says it’s a symbolic rejection of the old-world, not to be worn as actual clothing. It started off as his version of sackcloth and ashes. Six months ago, someone asked to buy a set. He’s been making them ever since.”
“Did he sell any to a man with a scarred face?”
“No. Silas has sold a few dozen sets. Whether he sold them to Ned Ludd’s friends, or whether Emmitt got the idea from him and had them make their own, I don’t know. Davis is interviewing him now, trying to get some more details, but I’m not sure there will be any. I think Greenbaum is just another tool, someone for Emmitt to use, yet I’m still unclear as to what purpose. The only truly interesting point is that a year ago he was giving his speeches on empty street corners, and now he’s speaking to hundreds. But is that thanks to Emmitt, or because there’s a genuine interest in the ideas he’s expressing? In short, we’re no closer to catching Emmitt. Rupert Pine might be our best lead.”
“He is? I didn’t think he said anything at the meeting.”
“Riley followed him home last night. She said he was uncharacteristically brusque as he tried to get rid of her. She suspects he’s up to something.”
“Can we interview him?”
“Officially? No. Atherton won’t allow it. Unofficially, there’s going to be a fundraiser at the Longfields tonight. Pine is one of the politicians who’ll be there. Simon’s spoken to his mother, and arranged for us to attend, and for a room to be found where we can talk to him in private.”
“And if he is involved, and he does talk, what can he po
ssibly tell us? He won’t know where Emmitt is, will he?”
“Probably not, but it’s what we do. We follow every lead. We’ll take these people’s fingerprints and compare them to the ones you and Davis collected in the house used by the saboteurs. The Marines will do double duty guarding the city, and the ones that aren’t will scour the countryside looking for vehicle tracks. The Navy are conducting their own investigation in the armoury at Loch Creigh. If Emmitt was planning on stealing explosives, then it’s probable that someone there is on the take. Tomorrow, we’ll go through what we’ve found, and start all over again. As for you, I want you and Davis going to this meeting at the supermarket tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because I was thinking about Fairmont and what he told us about The Syndicate. Their modus operandi was blackmail and extortion. So what if Pine is being coerced? Perhaps there’s a rumour or two floating around as to what his secret is. The people most likely to know it are those standing against him.”
Ruth thought about that. There was logic to it, but more importantly it didn’t sound as if Mitchell was fobbing her off.
“Okay,” she said.
“Good. Now, these people aren’t going to interview themselves. Ah, but imagine a world where they would.”
“I did a bit of work like this before the Blackout,” Davis said as he and Ruth picked their way through the crowds of evening commuters. “The trick is to say as little as you can, but not to come across as ignorant or prying. Your best chance is to appear interested in the person, so I’d say stick with the young men or the very old. Don’t ask ‘why?’ Not outright. Feign interested ignorance.”
“Interested in the person, right,” Ruth said, only half listening.
“Our story is that you’re my niece. I’ve come to the city looking for work that’s more secure than the mines. I didn’t work a seam, anyone with half an eye could tell that, but worked in administration. That’s all you know, and you don’t care about the details. You’ve been working on smallholdings, mucking out pigs and the like, and are looking for something better. I’m with you tonight because a girl of your age shouldn’t be wandering the streets alone. Got it?”
