by Phil Brett
Judging from her reply, Cole wasn’t going to tolerate this antagonism for too long. Her reply was curt and to the point. ‘Pete is helping me.’
Like Joseph, she accepted Herr Cole’s judgement without further opposition, but without enthusiasm, and then got straight down to business.
She pressed a button and a three dimensional image appeared of a pedestrian entrance, with stewards sharing a fag. ‘As you can see, all the cameras are all operational throughout the multi-story. I’m guessing the reason that these – unlike so many in the country – were deemed necessary for safety and traffic control rather than surveillance, so the locals didn’t remove them. Anyway, look . . .’ She told it to change to ME139, and although it was the same entrance, the time was 16.48. Confirming that it was what I thought it was, she let it run. It was the same – a blank concrete entrance, with similar traffic visible in the background. Nothing out of the ordinary appeared to happen. A bus passed. People walked. Cars passed. She sensed that at least one of us hadn't seen anything startling. ‘Watch,’ she commanded. She played back the tape.
I still saw nothing.
Cole, however, did. ‘The bloke with the green rucksack!’
‘Exactly!’
I stared, nonplussed. Was he our suspect? Was he famous? Was the rucksack incriminating?
Cole spoke excitedly, ‘The man with the green rucksack walks past twice, with the same woman in the hat behind him. It's on a loop!’
Kemal nodded. ‘It has been tampered with. And look at this. These are the cameras from that point on the street, just outside the car park, right up to Olivia Harrison’s car.’ She played them, pointing out the repetitions, which made it obvious that all had been hacked. Sometimes, it was just a detail such as a moving shadow, which Kemal had to point out, but it all told the same story. From the street to the cameras on the third floor. She stopped at 16.55. ‘It is the exact timeline that someone wanting to go from the street to Olivia’s car would take. The interference means that they cannot be seen. The same applies to a route back.’
‘Impressive. They’re in and out and invisible. Except, of course, it shows us the route they took both ways.’
I was glad that I wasn’t the only one who thought that. But I had a question. ‘How?’
Kemal answered curtly, ‘Simple. Counter-surveillance has become pretty advanced. For a few years now, it’s been standard kit for our more secretive departments. Fits in a pocket. It hacks into cameras, playing back the previous footage. It's less obvious than simply jamming it. It's pretty basic, but effective enough as a delaying tactic. If anyone's watching them at the time, then there's a good chance they will miss it. Even if spotted on a later playback, it only gives us the time, not an image. The range isn’t brilliant, but usually it doesn’t need to be, but maybe one thing going for us is that they are not that powerful. I am going to check the neighbourhood cameras – those still running, if there are any – to see if any resisted the interference. If there are, and it's a big if, it would let us see something. It’s a long shot – and, of course, let’s face it, most of them probably won’t have been working, or turned on in the first place – but it’s worth a look.’
‘Good. What about good old fashioned people?’ Cole asked. ‘Human eyes can’t be interrupted.’
‘We’ve had dozens of people come forward who were in the car park, but nothing yet. Ditto for the residents of the flats opposite. We’re still asking around, but so far, zilch. We put a message out on social media and the response has been good. There’s still a few who work in shops who haven’t been spoken to and quite a few people who are not at home.’
‘Who’s we?’ I asked.
She looked at me and for a second seemed to be considering whether or not she would deign to answer. Deciding to, she replied that it was the local NWC stewards, but people were pretty much coming forward voluntarily and helping. This was all very inspiring, and showed magnificently how we were managing to break down the division between those who police and those who are the policed, but it still meant that, so far, we had bugger all to work on but dozens to of people to work with.
Going back to purely addressing Cole, she outlined what else she was planning to do. It all sounded efficient, and boring. No wheel-screeching car chases here. I switched off from their conversation and remembered what little contact I had had with Olivia Harrison. She had struck me as being rather unpredictable but other than that, or maybe because of that, she was just your normal human being. One who now had half her skull missing.
My musing was cut short when Cole informed me that we were off to speak to Nick Morgan. Kemal had returned to fiddling with digital things and now had her back to us.
As we were leaving, Cole touched my arm. She sighed heavily. ‘I hate doing this. Do you fancy taking the lead? I think you’d be better at it than me.’
The possible reasons for her suggestion had so many sub-texts to it that you could have written a Russian novel out of them: one of those big hefty classics dealing in the meaning of God, existence, redemption and whopping great beards. Being as I didn’t really feel included in any of them, I settled for thinking it was due to her not wanting me to be left out. So, I shrugged a casual agreement and followed her out, thinking about what the hell I was going to say to Nick Morgan.
6. Lilium
We dumped the forensic suits, the boots (thank God), and the look of children's entertainers. Not that I was being disrespectful to our dedicated sisters and brothers in the under-twelve industry, because it should be recognised that many of them had joined us, but still, it wasn’t a great look. Thus sensibly attired, we went to see Nick Morgan, Olivia’s partner. We had been told that he was being looked after in one of the first floor flats of the block which faced the car park.
Crossing the street, we negotiated the crowd, which was abuzz with people milling around sharing information and guess work and talking straight-up bollocks. The stewards were swamped with people offering to help. Weaving our way through them, we went up to see Morgan. Seeing Cole’s armband, people let her pass, usually accompanied with comments concerning the hope that we would get the killer soon. Seeing that mine only had WC visible, I was grateful that nobody talked about their sanitation problems. Despite being shorter and a whole lot more petite than most, Cole had an air of authority that appeared to instantly inform people that she meant business. What they thought of me as I followed in her wake I had no idea.
The nearer we got, the more I doubted that it was a wise choice for Cole to leave the questioning to me.
We took the stairs. Where Morgan was being looked after was easily identifiable by the two stewards loitering there, sharing a can of Coke and trying to look menacing. They actually looked more like two students discussing Plato. This was the security. The taller one touched her chest, just below her left breast. I guessed that this was not a sexual thing but was indicating that she had a holstered weapon. Or maybe she was just checking that her wallet was still there. It was true, after all, that crime had yet to be totally eradicated. Whatever the reason, Cole tapped her armband. They nodded and indicated an open door behind them. Not a word was said. We had entered a world of mime.
It’s funny how an open door can prevent you going in just as much as a closed one can. Whether that was from conditioned politeness or natural wariness, I couldn’t tell you. Although I bet Dr Brakus could. Whatever the reason, we hovered in front of the door space. Victoria indicated that I should go in first.
Finally, I weakly yelled ‘Hello? Anyone home?’ A dumb thing to say. Obviously, people were in; otherwise, we had posted guards to protect an empty flat. But after numerous therapy sessions, I had developed a finely tuned sympathetic frontal lobe, which assessed that shouting, ‘Hey, Nickie boy! Just seen your missus with half her bonce missing. Mind if we have a chat?’ wasn't the best thing to do. Or, indeed, to do so in the voice of the Artful Dodger. So, a camp hello it was.
I received a mumbled reply and was met by a large pink-faced wo
man. On seeing us, she immediately issued a challenge, demanding to know who we were and what we wanted. Judging from the glance she had given to the room behind her, which I presumed to be the lounge, she feared that we had come to do to Nick Morgan what had been done to Olivia Harrison. Smiling my most pleasant and non-threatening smile, I explained who we were; whilst wondering – if there had been a realistic threat, then why was security so weak? Further proof of the lackadaisical attitude to safety was given when, without checking our ID, she accepted what I had said and let us through.
It was a nice enough room, with the usual furniture and technology you’d expect. The décor was quite pleasing too, contrasting green and orange walls punctuated with several photographs. Assuming that she wasn’t some wedding fetishist, these were of family occasions. It was quite a collection and quite a persuasive argument against the idea that the institution of marriage was dead.
Sitting on the blue striped three-person sofa was a slim, attractive man in his thirties. His hair looked as if it hadn’t seen a comb for yonks, which – judging from the fact that he was wearing a fashionable, and probably new, chunky jumper, mid-market jeans and spotlessly white trainers – was purely intentional. My bet was that, every morning, he spent ten minutes to get it to look that unkempt.
Our host, who hadn’t actually told us her name, pointed at him and pulled a face. This obviously was to tell us that this was Nick and he was in shock. Seemed that words were a precious commodity in this part of London. That being the only introduction she was going to make, she announced that she was going to make tea and did we want any.
In recent times, there had been thousands, perhaps millions, of words written and spoken discussing what a future Socialist world would be like. What would change, what would remain the same? One thing that hadn’t been mentioned – perhaps because it was so obvious – was the importance of tea in British social gatherings.
Cole, who was standing beside me and surveying the room as if there might be a clue as to the killer’s identity in one of the corners, said she’d have one. Despite not too much liking the drink, I also accepted. Then all eyes focused on Nick. He looked at the woman and simply said, ‘I haven’t finished the last one.’ The poor sod was probably drowning in the stuff.
Cole and I sat down opposite him. It had to be said: he was a good-looking chap, with cheek bones to die for, and his designer stubble complemented his unseasonal tan. His hair and eyebrows were jet black, which matched the area around his eyes that projected grief in all its raw, unforgiving power. He had no idea that this wasn’t half of what he could expect. Shock was protecting him at the moment; the real agony was yet to come. I looked downwards, summoning up the courage to start. I could see the snow congealing around trouser bottoms and starting to melt onto the carpet.
Taking a deep breath, I plunged in. ‘My name is—’
‘Pete Kalder. I know who you are.’ He spoke without seemingly moving a muscle in his face.
I wasn’t too sure how I felt about that comment. Whilst considering myself to be a legend in my own mind, I knew that my trial for murder had made a ripple in the news outlets, but that had quickly been submerged by the tsunami of the then prime minster organising to overthrow democracy. Events like that tended to bury most news, even that of the trial of one United Revolutionary Socialist Party member for murdering another. I quickly tried to think about why he might know that and what the ramifications might be.
He moved forward in his seat, and still without a facial muscle appearing to move in his face, rapidly spoke. ‘Olivia told me all about you and Wiltshire. She thought you had done a difficult job extremely well and shouldn’t have been judged too harshly. Fact is, I think she thought what you did was fair enough. Often, she said that if she had been in your position, she would have pumped a dozen bullets in the treacherous scum.’
It wasn’t a dozen, but I let it pass. It was more interesting that his first words, which he seemed desperate to impart were not of grief, regret or puzzlement, but concerned my little difficulty of several months back.
‘That’s why she was keen to speak at your trial,’ Morgan continued. ‘Despite everything else that was going on in the country and all the work she had to do, she was insistent that she speak in your defence.’
‘Yes, I was—’ My appreciation was cut short. He wanted, needed to talk, and I wasn’t going to be able to stop him.
‘Although she was only there for a day,’ he said, ‘she did watch it daily on the net. It was her opinion that, considering what the ruling class were planning to do to us, your actions were justified. She was also greatly interested in what you had to say about the importance of not underestimating MI5 and how they would do everything they could to undermine the revolution. I remember her saying that a particular comment you made stuck in her mind, namely that “when the balance is so even, the slightest breeze could tip it: even the breath of a few intelligence officers.”’
I felt Cole roll her eyes. I knew that she didn’t appreciate my eloquence. I’d thought it rather poetic, feeling that if I was going to face a lethal injection, then I might as well come up with a quote to be remembered by.
‘All through it,’ Morgan said, ‘she’d come home from work or after evening meetings and spend hours going through the trial transcript and following up things which had been said. Even as recently as yesterday, she was talking about contacting you. She thinks—’ He choked. Emotion was beginning show its claws. Breathing heavily, he pulled himself together to continue and corrected himself. ‘She thought that she had found something out, something which related to what you were saying.’
His voice grew in urgency. ‘She must have, Pete. Don’t you see? That’s why she was . . . was—’ He struggled for words to convey the horror which had just happened to her and the consequences to him and his children. In the end, he settled for just the one word. ‘Shot. She must have found out something. You need to look into what that was, because that will tell you who did that.’
He looked at me for a response.
I did my best. ‘Any idea what it was that she found out?’ I said, in a voice so lame that it would have taken more than a miracle to get it to walk.
‘No. None. But it must be linked.’ He was almost pleading with us. ‘Go to our house. I’ll take you. You can find out what it was. Please, please, find out who did that.’
His desperation was unsettling. Although on the surface all was quiet and calm, underneath was brutal, violent and volcanic. And his belief in me was worrying. Just because I had found a murderer once, didn’t make it a special skill of mine. To my surprise, he got to his feet and started shuffling from side to side.
Cole spoke, her voice soothing – reassuring, but assertive. Her whole manner was one which wanted him to calm down. She wanted him to think clearly. ‘We will do our best, Nick. Both Pete and I promise that. You may not know me, but my name is Victoria Cole. You have our full sympathy and solidarity. This is a tragedy. She was fine woman and comrade. Please, could you just sit for a little longer so we can ask you a few more questions?’ She smiled. ‘Let me have my tea, and then we’ll go.’ She looked towards the kitchen, telepathically urging the drinks in.
It did the trick, as, simultaneously, the woman with the tea arrived and Nick sat down.
‘Thank you,’ she said to both. As we took the cups, she explained who she was. This could be fun. I wasn’t sure how she fitted into our new Socialist Britain. ‘As I said, my name is Vic Cole and I’m a law and order technician attached to the NWC. My job is to assist in the smooth transition of society from within, as opposed to the old police strategy of being outside.’
“Law and order technician.” So that’s what her types were calling themselves, was it? I suppose it was easier than police-who-previously-had-looked-down-on-us-were-now-on-our-side-officers. Especially as she would no doubt have added a few words explaining that she had swapped sides prior to our seizure of power. So, law and order technician it was, the
n. I wasn’t too sure what the other bit meant, but whilst I would have once met it with a sneer, I now just let it go. Dr ‘Call me Sarah’ Brakus would be proud. And the company who made the anti-depressants would be too. Actually, there's a thought: were they British, and if so, had they been nationalised yet?
Unlike me, Cole was keeping to the point. She was relaxed and polite, but professional. ‘Before we go to your home, could you tell us what Olivia’s and your movements were today? From the beginning please, and don’t leave anything out.’
Like a blind being pulled down, his distress went and he appeared almost serene. It was impressive. Cole could achieve that with a few words; she might be more useful to me than my daily pills. Morgan didn’t shout, protest or complain, but just, in a passionless voice, took her literally and recounted what they had done from the time they had got up. Quickly, it became obvious that, despite living through an epoch-changing era, domestic chores still had to be done. And were as thoroughly as boring had they had ever been. After hearing what the day’s child care arrangements had been, we finally got to why they had been here. ‘I left the house later than normal and took the train. I work at the school up the road. Olivia had a few calls to make and some party work to do, so she left later. After doing them, she came here. I don’t know what time, because I’ve had one to one tutorials all day. She had to visit the electricity sub-station nearby. You know the type: charge your cars and go. She said there was someone she needed to speak to, probably an old colleague. She used to work in one. She was going to give me a lift home. But when I got there . . .’ His voice trailed off.
‘Did you see anyone...er... acting suspicious?’ I asked quietly, whilst in my head, I was loudly wondering to myself what qualified as suspicious and what had I expected him to see.
He shook his head. He was working hard to keep his emotions under control. You could see his jaws clenching as if he was controlling an urge to scream. He probably was. Then, his mood suddenly changed. In the previous few minutes, he had all but droned in an accurate but emotionless voice. Now, urgency grabbed him. He leant forward, and in a voice gripped with passion and desperation, he said, ‘You must listen to me. Olivia was greatly interested about the possibility of the security services being embedded in the movement. She thought it had been too lightly dismissed by the party.’
