by Phil Brett
I was enjoying my ride. It had been over six months since I had been in the world farther than ten minutes from the Anchorage. A part of the terms of my ‘supportive therapy’ was that, when I was at home, I had time and place restrictions. One side effect of this was that I couldn’t go around gloating at the fate of the rich bastards. So this was a rare luxury indeed. Lost in random reflections, I sat staring out as we crossed the Thames, passing through South West London.
Finally, we arrived at the car park, a dirty grey monolith whose only other colours were the yellow and black tape draped across the entrance. The revolution had not got around to replacing the old fashioned police tape. Well, I guess there were other more pressing matters. Workers’ council militia stood, armed and bored. Their dreams of a Socialist utopia had probably never included standing outside a multi-story car park.
5. Bryophyta
She flashed her ID and lifted her elbow. The reason was to show her armband, but it looked more like she was checking her armpits. Whether through comradeship, or an appreciation of the importance of bodily hygiene, the militia men allowed us in and informed us that the car was on the third floor, Block B, and that her colleagues Asher Joseph and Roijin Kemal had arrived and had already started. She politely thanked them, even though we were already aware of these facts.
A corner of the floor was cordoned off with the ubiquitous tape, and several cars were parked at angles, giving it the impression of a giant baby's play set. More guards were milling about with varying looks of boredom and befuddlement. Cole parked as near as she could. Before getting out, she took out a tatty Workers’ Council Steward armband from her glove compartment. Tossing it to me, I noticed that the N in the NWC was almost obliterated. Great, I’d be wearing an armband with WC on it. Not that I moaned or even, strangely, felt any aversion to wearing it, despite it looking rather crass over my fine overcoat and more importantly, being a symbol of the role that had landed me in so much trouble all those months ago. Then again, back then, I hadn’t had an armband, with or without the letters. So I put it on. Let’s be honest. It was the only thing which wasn’t pharmaceutical that I’d been given for nearly a year. It was a case of beggars and choosers.
We had barely left the car when Asher Joseph bounded over. His area of expertise was forensics, which was why I guessed, that at the trial he had made a great play of saying that he was scientist, instead of merely being a plod with a microscope. Despite wearing a bright orange forensic suit, I could tell that he had lost a bit of weight. Not that Joseph could ever be called anorexic; he was still in the region of 90 kilos, which for a guy roughly 1 ¾ metres tall made him a little plump-ish. Actually, I thought it suited him. He reminded me of the jazz saxophone giant, Charlie Parker. Indeed, I had told him that at my trial, which had merely prompted the response: ‘What, ‘cos I’m a fat black man?’ I took that to mean both that he wasn't interested in any friendly chat and that he wasn’t a jazz fan.
Seeing him come towards did make me wonder why forensic suits were always blindingly white or high visibility colours. It wasn’t as if the dead might not notice them tip-toeing about, looking for fingerprints and stuff. And if it was so important to have eye-watering colours, why were the wellington boots always black? I noted that the suit had several words crossed out with a marker pen. One was POLICE and the other some name of a forensic lab. We really did need to get our outfits sorted for this type of thing.
He had now reached us, his face displaying two distinct emotions: welcoming warmth for Victoria and an obvious surprise and hostility when he caught sight of me. Maybe that was three emotions.
‘What the fuck is he doing here?’ he barked.
Asher, at least, obviously wasn’t too bothered about counting. One thing was for sure: happiness wasn’t included. He wasn’t doing polite welcomes either, not with a look which suggested that red blood might spoil his lovely romper suit. Probably mine. I made a shrewd decision not to take this moment to ask about their colours.
Cole replied gently, ‘Ash, Pete’s with me. For obvious reasons, and these are reasons you yourself told me, I think it’s useful to have his help. There may be a connection between this and Wiltshire.’
Joseph didn’t say a word. Nor did he glare or snarl but merely nodded. The nod was acceptance but somehow managed also to contain a whole bucket of venom and hatred. All for yours truly. Sweet. Who would have thought a slight movement of the head could say so much. He wasn’t going to argue with Cole and would do as she wished. She may have persuaded him to leave the police and join us, but he was still following orders. So he did as she commanded. He was not going to do anything which could be deemed as antagonistic to me. And yet . . . And yet, he wished me a slow lingering death. All conveyed with a nod.
Not that it annoyed me. The pills stopped that. So, calmly and silently, I asked myself why he had such antagonism towards me. And furthermore, what right did some former baton-twirling prat have to question why I was here? Who the hell was he? I had been a member whilst he was dreaming of getting into double figures in spelling tests. But I wasn’t angry. I just nodded back. With added righteousness. I could match nods with the best of them.
With that out of the way, they got down to the details. Speaking quickly and with a common bond built upon trust, a shared respect and possibly even friendship, he led her to the car.
‘You should suit up first.’
I was about to ask if he favoured the two-, three- or possibly even five-button variety because I had him down as more of a jeans man, but felt humour wasn’t called for here. I also thought he might thump me.
From the back of one of the cars, we too dressed in finest yellow. I could see that he simply hated passing me mine but that only spurred me to thank him effusively, as one might do to a long-lost pal. His revenge was to give me wellies two sizes too small.
That over, he took us to the car. ‘She’s over here, Vic. Not a pretty sight, not with a good part of her head missing. Well, you know what an AA12 can do. Stewards are just starting to interview anyone who might know anything. There’s a few cleaners and a road sweep here. There’s also a few shoppers and such like, who have stayed behind. Statements are being taken as we speak. Roijin is looking at the CCTV and monitoring any phone calls made in the area. I just spoke to her, and so far – and to be fair, it’s only been a few hours – nothing’s come up yet. Nobody heard a thing, let alone saw anything. Mind the bollard.’
She did as he said. I didn’t and tripped, wincing as the boots bit into me. Neither seemed to notice. I wasn’t that important. Cole and Joseph were now just behind the driver’s window.
‘I’ve had photos taken and a forensic sweep done,’ Joseph said, ‘so it’s alright to stand here. I did as you asked and kept her where comrade Morgan found her. I have been getting jip about it ‘cos many of the stewards feel it is disrespectful.’ A slight smirk tickled his lips. ‘I’ve been learning a lot about how they view coppers, even ex-ones, round here.’
Good for them.
‘I told them that she had to be left here,’ he added, ‘because you'd want to see her.’
She leant forward and looked in.
‘Like I said,’ Joseph warned, ‘it ain’t pretty.’
Cole didn’t say anything but just looked. Her face didn’t betray any emotion, but Joseph obviously knew her well enough to read some.
‘Of course, you knew her,’ he said.
‘Slightly,’ she muttered. ‘Our paths had crossed a few times, so to speak. Poor woman.’
Joseph didn’t waste any time on condolences. Time appeared to be of the essence here.
‘Any idea of the time of death?’ she asked.
He blew out his cheeks. Yep, I really could see a saxophone stuck against them. ‘It’s a little early to say, but I’d guess that it was just before five. It was instant. Came from behind. The killer must have fired from here.’
He took out something resembling one of those electronic cigarettes which had been once
been so popular. The light shone through the glass and into the car. I couldn’t see anything because they were both in front of me. He was standing as if firing a gun, Cole was bending down and leaning to his right so as to see in. ‘You can see the trajectory of it. It went straight into the chassis. Judging from the positioning of the bullet, the shape of the wound and where her hands are, she was looking straight ahead, with her head slightly down. This model has the option of being voice or card ignition start. The card’s on the floor, so she obviously was using the latter and I think she was turning it on, which suggests that she wasn’t aware of someone coming up behind her.’
They were still looking in, but at what I had no idea. It could have been a pink bunny rabbit, for all I knew, because all I saw was their backs, hers being slim but strong and his with rolls. Both bright yellow.
They considered the options. ‘She hadn’t expected it. I reckon she didn't see anyone come up. The car’s perimeter sensors were off, presumably because she’d just got in, but if she looked, she still could have seen someone in the wing mirrors.’
Cole thought the idea possible but put forward another one. ‘Or she had been waiting for him or her to give them a lift. She sees them and expects them to swing around and get in. Did her partner . . . Nick . . .’
‘Morgan.’
‘Did Nick Morgan mention anything about her meeting anyone other than him?’
I had to lean in behind them now to catch what they were saying. We must have looked like some bizarre threesome.
‘He didn’t say, but then I only spoke to him briefly.’
‘Okay,’ Cole said. ‘We’ll ask him when we talk to him’.
I wondered if the ‘we’ included me or whether she had forgotten I was here.
‘I suppose,’ Joseph wondered, ‘it could be that she had seen someone but she deemed them as being no threat.’
For the first time, I spoke. ‘Which would be natural. Every time you see someone walking in a car park, you don’t immediately think: assassin from the old regime. You usually don’t pay them any mind. They're either going to or from their car.’
‘But, comrade, she'd have got the circular from central office about taking extra precautions and would have been alert to anyone coming up from behind. But her head is facing forwards.’ He sneered. ‘I think the memo would have covered avoiding anyone carrying a gun.’
‘Do we know that?’ Cole asked. ‘They could have been walking with it behind their back and brought it out at the last minute. Which, if so, shows they were highly skilled to be able to walk up, shoot and walk out without stopping.’
Now that he had returned to talking to her, a kinder, more polite, tone returned, ‘No, don't think so, Vic. Someone walking towards the car, with the situation as it is, with leading members alerted to possible dangers, even with their hands hidden – perhaps especially if they were hidden – would have made her keep her eyes on them. Possibly even move the car. My guess is that she never saw them.’
Cole seemed to agree but was keen to know more. ‘Could she have been trying to get away?’
Almost by telepathy, both straightened up and looked behind and seemingly through me. Both apparently not noticing the quite-well-preserved-for-someone-middle-aged guy, wearing a ridiculous forensic suit which criminally hid a knee length black Epsom overcoat over a well-cut suit and black roll neck sweater, who was standing behind them.
‘They would have come from there.’ Cole pointed to the nearest pillar, which lay between the stairwell and the car. ‘Any other direction would have meant that they would be in plain view for too long. They would have wanted to come up unobserved. From there, it would take, what, twenty seconds?’
‘Twenty five. I’ve tried it.
‘Surely, if she’d seen them that would have given her enough time to drive off. It’s a touch pad. Takes micro-seconds. Nah. I think she never knew they were there. It was instant blackout . . . sorry . . . I didn’t mean to be so insensitive.’
Cole waved away the apology. ‘So . . .’ She was obviously visualising the scene. ‘He, or she, must have just walked straight up and fired on the move. Turning and then going.’
‘Almost. From the glass splatter, the re-enactment programme has them simply walking straight past the car.’
‘That’s cool.’
‘Shows that they knew what they were doing.’
‘Can we surmise anything from the angle? How tall they must have been?’
‘I’m guessing that . . .’ He got out the little stick out again. ‘Between 1.7 and 1.8 metres. A little taller than me, but with longer arms than mine, by about 2cm, which doesn’t really help us with gender. Right handed, by the way.’
She nodded. ‘Anything from the car computer? Communications or the like?’
He blew out his cheeks, like a plumber despairing of a malfunctioning boiler. ‘Nothing. It’s been wiped clean.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that. Everything on it has been erased. Nothing at all. Not even how much juice is left in the battery. Same is true of her phone. Even her cloud’s been wiped. Nothing at all.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
Cole thought for a second. ‘Okay. Do what you gotta do, Ash, then get someone to take her away. I hear that we've managed to get some of the forensic labs back in action.’
He pulled that face again. The boiler had gone again. ‘Sort of. I'll do my best, Vic.’
‘Thanks. We need to see Roijin.’
‘She’s in the neighbourhood security office.’ He gave her directions, adding, ‘She’ll be also able let you know how the house-to-house is going.
She started to move off.
Deliberately, and wanting to make a point, I didn’t follow but instead moved past Asher. Ignoring his disapproving looks, I leant in between him and the car and looked. Previously, they had obscured my view; seemingly not feeling the need to involve me. So I looked, letting them know that I wasn’t just here for my good looks.
They were right about one thing – it wasn’t a pretty sight. But then, as Asher had said, I knew too well what an AA12 pistol could do.
A good chunk of the front and back of her head was missing. Bone, brain and skin now covered the interior. Her body was slumped over the safety belt. Her previously blond hair had – I think, although it was hard to tell – been tied up, but it was now a straggly red mess of gore. A previously black bomber jacket was now similarly discoloured. A lump of skull sat on her lap. It looked strangely unreal, like some macabre art installation, depicting how fleeting our existence was. Certainly, Olivia’s had been.
The front left of the dashboard had caved in and bore the marks of Asher’s attempts to remove the bullet. I noticed, though, that he had left the car on standby, still ready for her to start it up.
My medication was earning its keep, because I felt no nausea looking at the scene. No horror. No grief. Nothing. Total blank. Just like her computer. Empty. Void.
Straightening up, I felt the need to say something, to prove that I was worth something. ‘As you say – instant and professional.’
Neither said or did anything. They hadn’t been bowled over by my insight.
‘Fancy joining me?’ Cole asked, after a few seconds of an embarrassed silence.
‘Indeed.’ I replied, strolling right after her and ignoring a distinct feeling that Joseph felt that he had some grievance with me. I could take a guess at what it was but didn’t let it bother me. An ex-copper dancing to the tune of new masters wasn’t really someone I felt the need to cultivate as a friend. Being pally with one former plod was enough to cope with it as it was.
The security office turned out to be on the top floor next to the power plant. Despite its grand name, it was little more than a dusty box room with peeling green paint, a set of rusting lockers, a control panel dating from about the time Moses allegedly came down from Mount Sinai, and six screens of approximately the same age. Two of which were smashed.
Roijin was in there, sitting on the only chair in the room and studying them. Hearing us, she turned around, giving a smile when she caught sight of Cole and a non-committal nod when she saw me. Here was another witness from my trial. It was just like old times. If I’d known, I would have organised some canapés and party games.
She was a middle-aged Turkish woman with greying jet black hair; I would have hazarded a guess that she was in her late forties. Her skin had started to drop and muscles droop a little, a phenomenon I was sadly well acquainted with. Her eyes appeared to be imbedded in dark craters and could look positively scary when she had wanted to. Which, if memory served me well, was how she had looked during my trial.
She was, I had been told, an ICT forensic expert, although I hadn’t seen much of any expertise, either ICT or forensic. But I was sure that she was a wow at it, whatever it was.
She didn’t say anything, but gave off the same vibe as her colleague, Asher Joseph. They must have run some kind of course for it – silent contempt. She, too, had been a part of the small caucus of police officers who had joined the party before the civil war. Her jet black eyes managed the impossible and got darker with an even darker look. No doubt, it had earned her a first on the course.
But I was mistaken. She wasn’t going to stay silent. ‘I didn’t expect you to bring him!’
Okay, it was not quite as aggressive as Joseph, but she wasn’t exactly oozing love.
