Gone Underground

by Phil Brett

  I could see Cole’s surprise. Yes indeed, Victoria, someone keeps in touch with me.

  After a second, Gita muttered, ‘Good idea,’ and then, to my utter and total shock, Asher Joseph forgot his hostility and simply said, ‘Why not?’

  ‘I agree,’ Bale announced.

  Was I dreaming?

  I wasn’t. He even added, ‘Okay, Pete. Contact them and let me know if it’s okay, and assuming that it will be, let’s meet there at 7.30. Asher, you know about such things. Could you set up an incident room there?’

  He really had learnt his police dictionary. Incident room, indeed.

  Appreciation of his mastery of the parlance was interrupted when a phone rang. For a second, we did the “check-to-see-if-it-our phone” jig, before Gita held her hand up to indicate it was for her.

  ‘Hello? Oh, hi, Emily. No probs. What’s up? Did you forget something?’ she laughed. ‘Oh, right. No, I won’t be long, but don’t wait outside. It’s too cold. You’ll freeze your tits off. No, you go on. I’ll see you at the AF centre.’

  After Gita had apologised to us, Cole spoke, ‘Now, before we meet tonight, there's things we need to do.’

  Bale looked guilty. ‘Well, I'm sorry, Vic, but I’m afraid I can’t really do much today because its rather rammed with NWC business. I'm guessing that'll be true for you as well, Gita.’

  ‘Yeah, pretty much. Plus, I've got prepare for the Environment Conference. Me and Em, Emily Messager, are leading the session on safe renewal energy and what we do in the short term.’

  Bale gave himself a playful slap on his forehead. ‘Of course. Sorry. But you’ll be finished by 7.30 though?’

  She said she hoped to be.

  ‘Great. Jack said he should be free by lunch, but I could contact him to ask him to do something—’

  ‘This is not good enough!’ I said, in a tone which was only a fraction below a growl, and not much quieter than a shout. ‘We may have fundamental and deep-rooted political issues with a standing police force, but that doesn’t make us fucking amateurs. I know we are still trying to work things out, but at the very least, we need to be serious, professional and focussed. We can’t just fit in a bit of investigating when our busy schedules allow. A woman has been murdered. That, in itself, should make it a priority. The new society we want to build is not a return to the old Wild West. We want order, we want law, we want fairness and equality. All of which, murder is not. But the fact that she was a high profile comrade who we think might have been killed by MI5, makes it even more so.’

  I paused to take in air. I hadn’t felt anger in quite a while. It was almost literally taking my breath away. I ploughed on. ‘We can’t have Jack whatshisname sorting out the buses before he agrees to help; Glen pissing off to munch sandwiches and speeches; Gita adding the video to her conference presentation before fitting in a quick chat about Olivia Harrison’s murder. No. If this is to happen, then all of us need to be on this full time and for as long as it takes. Otherwise, it’s just playing at being cops, and if you wanna do that, go down to the toy shop and get yourself an outfit!’

  No one spoke for a moment or two, before Bale, to my surprise (and I was being surprised a lot here) agreed whole-heartedly. ‘You’re right, Pete. I’ll see about getting leave from the NVC. Gita?’

  She nodded. ‘No problem. Pete’s right.’

  Bale said he’d also contact Jack Foxton right away. ‘What do we want him to do?’ he asked.

  ‘From what I saw,’ replied Roijin Kemal, ‘the questioning of people around the scene of the murder was pretty extensive but it was chaotic. We need to know whether statements were taken from everyone. If so, where are they? What was asked? Are there people we need to contact? We have a few vague descriptions of someone walking ‘with purpose’ away from the scene; these need following up. From the meeting we just had, it's obvious that already we've gleaned a lot of info. We need to sift it, and it would help us more if it was presented to us in an ordered manner.’

  Bale nodded. ‘Okay, Roijin. It sounds like you actually need to talk to him as well. That's something he can organise. We can both go there and help him. Whilst we’re there, we can do another search to see if anything was caught on film. You’d be surprised how many things have cameras on nowadays – seems even a lawn mower has sensors. Something might have turned up. I suggest that we go straight to Battersea. I’ll contact Jackie. I can’t see there being a problem with me missing a few NWC sessions. Not for something like this.’

  Joseph spoke. ‘I’ll make sure the forensics have been finished at the car park and then head to the lab. I need to do some tests on Olivia. I've contacted some technicians who can assist. I'm not expecting to find anything, but it has to be done. From there, I'll head to the Courtauld.’

  ‘Good.’ Bale smiled. ‘We’re getting somewhere. Anything else?’

  Cole answered Bale’s question: ‘Two things occur to me. Firstly, we need to find out who exactly knew that Olivia would be in that car park at that time; and we need to start a timeline of what Olivia was doing over the two weeks before getting into her car in the car-park.’

  This time Gita spoke. ‘I can talk to Nick. I know him from some eco campaigns.’

  ‘That’s great,” Cole said. “Pete and I can go to her workplace and see what we can find there.’

  ‘Good. This is useful.’ Bale now beamed, obviously proud of the birth of his new baby. ‘What do you think, Pete?’

  I said that I thought it a start.

  ‘Glad you’re happy,’ Kemal muttered.

  A fake, and hopefully annoying, grin accompanied my reply. ‘Don’t want any miscarriages of justice because of incompetence, do we? We had enough of that with you lot in your former life.’

  Her eyes narrowed. Before she could spit out what she wanted to say, Bale wrapped up the meeting. I'll never know what it was going to be.

  Not loving and affectionate, I'd guess.

  11. Ceanothus roderickii

  We had learnt that, in the days leading up to her murder, Olivia Harrison hadn't been working at the NWC. Instead, she'd been employed at the glamorous locale of Ramsgate, on the Kent coast, in the offices of the Thames Estuary Wind Farm. It was information useful both to help our investigation and because it had been Glen Bale who had supplied it, thus showing that there was some point to Glen Bale existing.

  Even with Victoria’s driving, it had taken us almost two hours to reach the location – proof, if it were needed, that whatever our enemies might say, the leadership of the revolution were not living off the backs of the brainwashed working class. If that was the case, then Olivia Harrison would have found a workplace a bloody lot nearer to home. But, then, perhaps Ramsgate held hidden delights, because we'd been informed that she had been there for a solid four days.

  On the way, I'd been in contact with Roijin; the pair had trawled NWC records for all and any mention of Olivia Harrison. Whether it be communications, debates which she had participated in, votes taken, speeches made or when she'd scratched her nose, they looked for references to it. The idea had been to help us paint a picture of her movements in the weeks before her murder. Judging by the amount we'd found, it was going to need a bloody great canvas. I hoped that we had the skills, and staff, to find the detail.

  One solid thing Roijin did find out was that, at the time of Olivia's murder, Gita Devar and Emily Messager were at the NWC. Both had turned their computers on with minutes of each other and had contacted third persons. Gita had discussed the environment conference with an Ethiopian left-wing organisation. Emily had contacted a Finnish one for the same reason. That had been a relief. It might have been a tad awkward if Gita, who was involved in the investigation, was simultaneously under suspicion. And not that much more comfortable if it had been her anarchist sister.

  Olivia herself had been signed out from the NWC for a total of four days for RiC duties. These so-called RiC duties had been the reason why Olivia had been parking her coffee mug in Ramsgate. RiC was
the NWC policy known as ‘Rooted in the Community’. Full time officials, NWC or trade union, or indeed any other, should not solely perform their elected duties and were required to do some workplace employment. This even included Jackie Payne, the country’s president, who, once a fortnight, was on the cleaning rota for the NWC main building. Thinking of the half dead flowers I’d seen there, I wasn't too convinced that she was all that efficient in her less public role.

  Olivia had chosen Ramsgate, the centre of operations, for the latest Thames Estuary Wind Farm array. The brand new generation of the souped-up turbines had just opened days before we had taken power. Thus, taking control of theirs.

  Approaching the coast, I rang my friend at the Courtauld Gallery and after a brief catch up, he had confirmed that they did have spare rooms there, although almost choking when I explained why I wanted them. After regaining his ability to breathe, he expressed concern and worry – and not a little opposition – to my involvement once more in amateur detective work. I wasn't sure whether this was from apprehension at what that might do to my well-being or to the gallery's. He even mentioned that if I was going to be released from the Anchorage, then there might be work for me there. I was flattered and told him that I’d think about it, but that I wasn’t sure I was that rehabilitated yet. He laughed. I decided not to point out that it had not been a joke.

  Hanging up, I realised that I couldn’t hear any sea-gulls squawking (or whatever they do) in welcome of our arrival at the coast. Whether this was because they’d been eaten due to the food shortage brought on by the blockade or simply that it was too bloody cold for them to bother, I couldn’t tell you. There didn’t appear to be many people about either, which I had no doubt was due to the latter. Things hadn’t quite gotten to the stage of cannibalism just yet. In fact, today's news was of another two countries, under pressure from their trade union movement, breaking from the UN sanctions. Within weeks, they would be opening both trade and diplomatic links with us.

  Cole swung the car into Victoria Road, which I reassured myself had not been named after her, and as she did, we saw the English Channel. The sky was pretty well cloud free, probably because of the strong winds blowing them westwards. The winds were attempting to do the same to the car. It did mean that the turbines would be producing lots of lovely energy, which as long as our cyber-defences held, would hopefully mean a good few hours free of power cuts.

  I gazed out the window and found the sight rather relaxing. Personally, I found the turbines rather beautiful, standing in white slim rows, elegantly spinning. Powerful and yet calm. It took my mind off the calamity which Cole had called music and which had been giving me a headache. She had insisted on playing it for the past hour. My suggestion of some classic soul had been politely but firmly turned down. Seemed that the days of schmoozing me by playing particular favourites of mine were now passed.

  On entering Peace Road, we saw the white buildings behind the long chain fence which belonged to the wind farm. Here, the car computer told us, were the administrative offices, which had once been owned by a Japanese multi-national, but as of August 20th were the state’s. Also located here were the Strasbourg generators, which apparently had replaced the VII series. All of which meant sod all to me.

  Noticeably, there were guards patrolling every hundred metres or so. Most were wrapped up in thick duffle coats, tartan scarves and woolly hats and semi-automatic weapons. They looked more Dad’s Army than Red Army.

  At the gate, we were stopped by five guards of assorted sizes who only reinforced the feeling that this armed body of men and women were more comical than threatening. They also weren’t that officious either; a smartish flash of our ID and a vague explanation as our purpose of being there had been enough for them to happily let us in.

  They’d also been kind enough to tell us who we needed to see and, indeed, were good enough to contact him to notify him that he was going to be enjoying a visit from us.

  We drove in. There was a small car park with about ten bays by the first building, which was about the size of three domestic homes. Other such sized buildings ringed an area of manicured lawns, giving the impression of a putting green on a golf course. All of them were white, smooth and rectangular, with mirror windows, and topped with angled, solar panels. Why did they need solar panels here at a wind-farm? Surely, they had all the power they required. Quickly, I pushed the thought from my head. In all honesty, I wasn’t that particularly bothered.

  My excitement at a trip out of London was fading fast. At the start, it had been a bit of a thrill leaving the clutches of the Anchorage and heading to the seaside. But if Cole's 'music' had started to dull the feeling, then our arrival had sent it into comatosity. Apart from the score of red flags hanging from poles above, it all looked like some naff copy of a naff ex-pat community in a naff part of southern Spain, during a naff out-of-season dull period.

  This group of buildings was separated from a smaller pair of identical looking offices by the putting green. All were white, smooth, cuboid and boring. These other two were closer to the sea, and I wondered if they were regarded as being the prestigious offices to have because of their sea view. Were there fights over who worked in them? Was it by length of service? Or type of job? Or simply pot luck as to who got the seascape and who got the dull, well-manicured circle of grass? Those confined to the more inland offices did have the compensation of a view what appeared to be the only evidence of originality in the place. At its centre, where you’d expect the golf hole, was a rather unusual sculpture: a large, green, pot-bellied figure, in mid stride, holding what looked like an oversized worm, but was in fact a sack across his shoulders. Any chance of a closer inspection was postponed because, on getting out of the car, we were almost blown off our feet. Those turbines must be cooking in this. We were all but blasted towards the door.

  The electric doors slid open on our approach, and as we flew in, we were met by a chubby white middle-aged guy with shoulder-length blond hair, metal rimmed glasses and a badly cut grey suit. This was Connor Nash, a plant manager, which I presumed did not mean that he was in charge of the shrubbery around there.

  He welcomed us and shook our hands. The doors shut behind us, allowing us to retrieve our breath back from the gale. Guiding us to the first door on the right of the corridor, he mixed condolences for Olivia; tributes to her honour, hard work and humour; and comments on how bloody cold it was. We were led into a room which befitted such a place. It had dials. You expect power stations to have dials. Okay, there were only three of them, but they were dials. There was also four screens. The rest of the décor consisted of long green metallic rectangular plates, which I presumed covered the electrics.

  Despite his friendliness and the fact that there were four seats in the room by a steel tubular desk, he didn’t ask if we wanted to sit, but instead, following his declarations of support, promptly told us that he couldn’t be with us for too long because he was rather busy. A cup of coffee was out of the question then.

  That didn’t seem to bother Victoria too much, who just got straight down to the business of us being here.

  ‘We were told at the NWC that Olivia Harrison worked here when she was on RiC duties. Is that correct?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ He smiled, folding his arms and resting them on his belly, which looked especially designed for such a use. ‘Olivia would come here, on average, once a fortnight – sometimes more, sometimes less, depending on her NWC commitments. Like I said, she was well liked here. We were all shocked when we heard the news. Absolutely tragic. She was one of the first speakers I heard when I joined the party two and half years ago. What they don’t understand is that differences should be sorted by debate, not by guns.’

  Cole wasn’t too concerned to engage with his plea for peace and harmony. We’d gone long past debates with the old ruling class.

  ‘Indeed,’ she muttered. ‘Could you tell us what exactly Olivia did here?’

  He had a smiley face which appeared to have all
its features enlarged, including a big squishy nose. Even the pores of his face looked like craters. As he spoke, he exuded bonhomie. No doubt, from those very pores. ‘Of course, of course. She worked in the recovery maintenance department.’

  ‘Which means?’ asked Cole.

  ‘It’s the department which is concerned with the maintenance of the turbines. Making sure that they are working as efficiently as possible. Her particular role was to ensure that the boats, tools, software and hardware to make any repairs were maintained. Sort of maintaining the maintenance.’ He laughed at his own joke. Cole didn’t. I felt like consoling him – that happened to me too.

  Instead, to get him out of the hole, I clarified what he had said. ‘So, she made sure that the spanners were all there when they needed them?’

  He laughed, this time at my witticism. Again, Cole didn’t. ‘Well, we’re a bit more sophisticated than that here, but yes, that’s about it.’

  Cole took over the questioning again. She didn't attempt any humour. ‘Could you tell us whether she was here for the four days covering February 20th, 21st, 22nd and 23rd?’

  He thought for a second, scratching his hair (which hadn’t seen a style since the day he’d been born) with the palm of his hand. Looking a little puzzled, he replied, ‘Well, she usually wasn’t here for such a long stretch of time. Usually it was a day, two days max, but I can check.’

  Looking at the smallest of the screens, he asked it to flash the diary for the period we had asked for. Shaking his head, he said, ‘No. According to this, Olivia was in for the 20th and 21st, but not the other two days.’

  ‘Are you certain of that?’ she asked.

  ‘Pretty much. Everyone gets logged in when they arrive. She was in for those days only: swiped in on the 20th at 9.09 and left at 17.55 and then on the 21st at 9.03 and 13.37.’

  ‘So, you are saying that Olivia was not here on the 22nd or 23rd?’

  He nodded, looking a little bemused at how more plainly he could relay that fact.