Gone Underground

by Phil Brett

  Janet's smile remained, but she had no idea what Cole was trying to say.

  Cole got more obvious. ‘Not anyone called Youssef Ali, for example?’

  ‘No, like I said, after me talking garbage for about half an hour, she went off to look around the site and talk to a few people. I left her to it and just got on with my work. I only found out who she had spoken to at this morning’s meeting.’

  ‘But she returned the next day – do you know why?’

  ‘No idea. I wasn’t in then. It was my day off. I didn’t even know she had been until you told me.’ Nobody really said much at the meeting. I guess they're wondering why you want to see them.

  ‘Did she speak to anyone more than once?’

  She tugged out a scrap of paper, seemingly wedged in her trousers, and looked at it. ‘No, not really. Not that I can tell.’

  Cole pulled a painfully plastic smile, which made it clear why she had been a cop and not an actress. The customer relations courses must have been cancelled before they had reached facial expressions. ‘Thanks, Janet. So to be clear - you weren't working on Wednesday?’

  She repeated that she hadn't been, and then felt the need to tell us that's she'd been catching up with housework.

  ‘Can anyone verify that?’ Cole asked smoothly.

  It evidently didn’t seem to bother Kovac, that she was being asked to account for movements, and replied with a chuckle. ‘Apart from Moaner, I didn’t see a living soul. And as Moaner is a King Charles Spaniel, I don’t think he’ll be of much help.’

  I smiled. So did Cole. One was more genuine than the other.

  ‘Thanks, Janet. Could you send them in to see us, in the order in which Olivia spoke to them?’

  And so it all started. Two minutes later, a tall muscular guy with swept back black hair strolled in with the confidence of someone who knows he is on home turf. The longest serving worker in the crew, he was a die-hard Parliament supporter who thought all talk of the prime minister organising a coup was a cover for us seizing power. The military attacks on NWC centres of power were a mirage, I presumed. He'd get on with my sister, I thought. He was polite enough and answered all our questions fully, but it was obvious that he thought us usurpers who would get our comeuppance soon enough. Until then, he would play along with the new, temporary rulers. Yep, Sophie would love him.

  He told us that he had vaguely heard of Olivia Harrison before he had met her. When I had asked how, he had grinned and said “on the news”. Olivia had spoken to him whilst he had been putting on his protective gloves by the outflow regulator. He had been here for both her visits but had only spoken to her once, although he did admit, after a little prodding, that, on the second day, he had said a brief hello and had joked that she couldn’t get enough of the place.

  Victoria had a map projecting from her phone. He located where each meeting had taken place, the approximate time and how long he thought the conversation had lasted.

  Olivia had asked him about what exactly he did, which was maintenance. Questions also concerned how long he had worked there and how the equipment was holding up. Eight years this May, and quite well had been his answers. He had given Olivia a brief outline of his role, but she had asked for more, and to his surprise, she had seemed well briefed on the extraction industry. They had also chatted about his home life and had also been interested in the news that he had just become a father for the second time and had wished him luck. Despite her politics, he said, she appeared to be a nice “girl”. He asked us to forward his condolences to her family.

  We were five minutes into the interview. He was relaxing and his politics began to show. Occasionally, a loaded comment surfaced, alluding to the state of the country and the violence which was still going on. Nothing was said was too aggressive, and there wasn't much that we could argue with. Our real point of disagreement was who to believe. That never surfaced. Neither side felt the need.

  He was able to provide, in painful detail, what sounded like a thoroughly uneventful conversation. He answered fully, with no, or not much in the way of, animosity, not even when I had asked him where he was at the time of Olivia’s murder. He knew why I was asking, but with only a slight pause, he informed us that he had been working there from nine am to six pm. Polite, but not friendly.

  And that was the case throughout. We wouldn’t be getting too many invites home, but then no one showed much in the way of antagonism. I took the next one (an engineer who had sat bolt upright and declined to take either her hat or protective gloves off throughout the session). She had spoken to Olivia. Again, Olivia had asked about her role in the plant, how it was going and her thoughts on the future. She also liked Olivia.

  Cole took the next, and we alternated our way through them. Avatars appeared on Cole’s projected site where the meetings took place. It all looked so very exciting. It wasn’t. Everyone appeared to have just had friendly chats with Olivia about their life, work and loves. Maybe Olivia had come here to up the number of her friends on social media. Certainly, they all appeared to like her and regretted her death.

  Three in succession were from the security detail, who had been transferred here by the NWC to protect it from either attack from Parliamentary forces or from over-eager green anarchists wanting to close the place down this minute – part of the broad irony of the situation, which Janet Kovac had alluded to. Politically, they had all been fairly sound. Not party members, but all three were in smaller sister organisations. All assured us that, as far as they were concerned, with regard to sabotage, this was one of the safer energy plants.

  The last of Janet’s list also didn’t have much to add to our sum of knowledge. Andy Thomas was a weedy guy, with three large spots on his chin and an unfortunate case of body odour. The last time he had washed his hair probably predated the revolution. Was this bad hygiene or a personal protest? I know we shouldn't be crass and criticize manual workers for smelling of manual labour, but I did find it rather unpleasant. Whilst Cole was interviewing, I surreptitiously moved my chair back a few centimetres.

  Andy was pretty new here – just a few months, he said – so maybe he didn’t know where the showers were. He’d been redeployed from transport, the underground to be precise. He was enthusiastic – well, as enthusiastic as Andy seemed to get about anything – to be working at the extraction plant. It was a good job, he said.

  ‘Putting it simply,’ he explained, ‘I monitor and measure the speed and flow of the water jet.’

  Politically, Andy was neutral, saying that politics didn't interest him, which had him in the minority in the country. But with his air of apathy about everything, I could believe him. Even when asked about his personal life, the most we received was a smile.

  ‘Got three kids, all under ten,’ he replied, with all the excitement of a lawnmower. No offer was made to show us pictures of them.

  I was losing the will to live.

  There was one spark of excitement, when he told us that had spoken to Olivia on both days of her visit. Remembering that Janet Kovac had thought no one had done so, I asked him why hadn't he mentioned this to her. He shrugged his shoulders. Too much effort, I suppose. Olivia had been the one to search him out. She had started with her usual questions about his personal life and politics, then onto his job. Presumably, Olivia was too polite to mention his personal hygiene regime. Or they had talked above ground in the fresh air. She had wanted details about the injection process, its dangers and efficiency. And whether, even with the latest extractors, there was much life left in the process. He had told her that it was pretty safe, although he conceded that nothing could be completely so. He also agreed that it was almost an academic question as to whether the NWC closed them down as, in his words, they were “wringing out the last droplets”.

  ‘Why did Olivia need to talk to you again?’ Cole asked.

  ‘She wanted confirmation on some of the data she had compiled on extraction levels. She also had some figures for possible geological damage which the
plant has caused, and in the case of an accident, could cause.’

  ‘And were they correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Have you any idea why she might want that information?’

  Andy Thomas looked her, as if rather confused by the question, ‘Er, well, from what I hear, she was asking about the precise details of the running of the plant. I think we can all guess why that is.’

  When neither Cole nor I did so, he gave us the answer. ‘She was compiling information for the next phase of the NWC energy strategy. This place will be closed in months and she wanted as much info to hand to combat any opposition.’

  His look told us that he thought this was blindingly obvious. He had a point.

  Finally, Andy had left, taking his body odour with him. We sat there. My brain felt dead. We'd been stuck in there for four hours, seen fifteen people, consumed five coffees (three teas for Victoria), thirteen biscuits (the majority being consumed by me), four stale sandwiches, had six trips to the loo (four by me) and now we were done. I felt like you do after a long flight under artificial light, breathing recycled air and eating plastic wrapped food. My stomach felt full but I was hungry. I needed a good wash and some fresh air.

  ‘So?’ I asked, for about the hundredth time.

  ‘So, we’re missing something,’ she said, like some corny TV plod. ‘Something brought Olivia here, not just Monday afternoon, but back Tuesday morning. Why?’

  "Maybe she was one of those comrades who dislike the policy of rooted in the community, of taking time off from full time party duties to take other work. I know many party members believe it to be rather tokenistic and rather pointless. It was after all, the Anarchists who pushed the idea. So maybe she simply wanted to escape counting the stationary at the Thames wind farm and so came down here.’

  Cole didn't answer. Obviously, she felt that my latest contribution didn't warrant one.

  I tried again, "Maybe, she just wanted a break."

  Still Ignoring me, Cole ran her finger in a line along the table. ‘Olivia works at the Thames Estuary Wind Turbine Centre as usual, and uses the respite from the hurly-burly of the NWC to give her the space to prepare for the environmental conference, which the party sees as being of extremely high importance. In doing so, she contacts this place. Something which is said in that phone conversation brings her here two days running. It is so secret that she lies to the NWC about where she is. Whatever it is was is the reason for her murder.’ She tapped the table as if making a full stop. ‘In Battersea car park.’

  ‘Any idea what that reason might be?’ I gently asked, agreeing with her but having heard nothing which enlightened me on what that might be.

  ‘None,’ she sighed. ‘But let’s check what we have been told.’ She spoke to the projection which was showing an aerial view of the extraction plant with the times and places where our recent interviewees said they had spoken to Olivia Harrison. ‘Call Roijin Kemal.’

  Seconds later, Roijin’s face appeared in the top right-hand corner. Evidently, she was driving somewhere. Maybe the NWC should legislate against all this driving and communicating. Even with the latest auto-controls, it couldn’t be good for road safety.

  Cole didn’t bother with polite chitchat, and Kemal didn’t seem to want it. The conversation was brisk and business-like.

  ‘Roijin, hi. Sorry to bother you. How are we doing with visual footage from CCTV, dash cams, car sensors and so on, for the area around murder scene?’

  ‘Yeah, we have some better possibilities. I was going to show them tonight. Comrade Gale wants us to meet—’

  ‘Anything definite? Anything clear enough which we can use?’

  ‘Well, not at the moment but we—’

  ‘Okay, I’ll see them at the meeting. So, what time is it?’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Okay, good. We’ll be there. Listen, Roijin. I’m sending you the film of us interviewing several workers here, and I want you to compare them with your images from Battersea to see if anything matches.’

  Cole sensed my surprise and said, as an aside, ‘I put the projection on record as well as show. They were filmed as they spoke, so we have everything on tape, which means we can re-watch it if we need to.’ My heart didn’t beat faster at the thought. It was hardly high-speed car chases, was it? There was also the issue of whether we had been filmed too. I regretted every one of my yawns and wondered if I had picked my nose at all.

  Returning to Kemal, Cole continued with instructions. ‘I need you to get a link with the drone stationed above the extraction plant on the same coordinates as we are right now. You should seek out the film for Monday and Tuesday this week, at the times given on the map. Then trace the movements of Olivia Harrison and confirm that she was seen talking to these people, at the times and for the durations that they say she was. I’m assuming the drone isn’t one of the dinosaur-spec models, which don't have building interior scans. I think, with the beefed up security here, it will have, and hopefully it was operational, so conversations indoors can be seen. If you can pick up anything they’re saying, then all the better.’

  Cole didn’t bother pausing to hear her reaction, because obviously she expected compliance.

  ‘Then, I want you to look at the drone film for the time of Olivia Harrison’s murder, and see who was working here and see if it matches what they have told us. That will obviously mean we can discount them from our investigations.’

  Finally, Cole drew breath. Roijin took her chance to speak. ‘You think there is a link somehow between the extraction plant and her murder?’

  ‘Yes. That's why this is a priority.’

  ‘Okay, but we are piecing together strands of video footage in a radius of three kilometres around the location of Olivia’s murder. That’s kind of keeping me busy. But yeah, I can do that. I could also see if there is anything left on the old police records or anything from the security sites. As you know, the police files are pretty much cleaned of anything useful, and only tiny fragments of data were able to be salvaged from MI5/MI6 systems after they destroyed everything just before the revolution, but it’s worth a try.’

  Cole nodded her head. ‘Good idea. It’s not much, but we haven’t much more to go on. See you tonight. Oh, Roijin? I assume it’s at Somerset House, in the Courtauld?’

  It was. And just then, a text came through from Glen Bale informing us of it. Well, that dear old comrade would have to up his game if he was going to be quicker than these two. By the time I had finished reading his message, Cole had finished her call and was on her feet and announcing that we were to look around the plant. Just bloody wonderful.

  Trudging around the place, I had cause to remember my mum, who, like so many mums, would always go on about not feeling the benefit of my coat if I kept it on indoors. Shivering as we inspected pumps, gauges and pipes, I reflected on her wise words. Every so often, we would pop into the various depressing shit holes which they called offices. The whole place felt rundown and cold. Not just in the literal sense, but in a neglected kind of way, as if the machinery itself knew that its days were numbered.

  On our tour, we passed a few whom we had already spoken to. Andy Thomas, for example, gave us a nod, whilst looking at some pipe or other. Others whom we hadn't previously met, we stopped and talked to. This meant that, as this was hardly a Texas oilfield in size, we spoke to good percentage of those who worked here.

  With each new person we met, we asked pretty much the same questions we had asked the others. Although most of them confirmed that they had not actually spoken to Olivia on those days, all knew who she was and some had seen her. We did meet two militia guards and one technician who had briefly spoken to Olivia. They hadn't been in Janet Kovac's workplace meeting, so hadn't “got around” to telling her that they had done so. Ankle deep in mud, in blistering winds and the smell of gas, we had repeated our questioning. With my spirits sunk to the depth of a mine shaft, Victoria had done all the work. She had been as thorough outside as in. And a
fter a further two hours, learnt equally sod all. But it had not be a total waste of time. I had been educated in the extraction process; I had ruined my trousers and my balls had frozen to the size of peanuts. It had been a blessed relief when Cole had announced that she was satisfied. However, there had been no time to break open the champagne and celebrate, because she informed me that we were going to visit two other extraction plants. It had just got even more bloody wonderful.

  Trudging back to the car, we passed yet another wrapped-up worker in regulation high-visibility jacket and helmet, who was standing by a large wheel of one of the dozen water tankers which were parked, and rusting, at the far side of the plant. Cole stopped and chatted to him, not wanting any stone unturned I guessed. How committed she was. I didn’t at first catch his name or register much about him, only that he was young, dark haired and his name sounded Italian. My mind was elsewhere, and I was having almost sexual fantasies of Victoria’s car’s heater and warm seats. Shivering, and fearing that I was about to die of hyperthermia, whilst my trousers rotted in the sludge, I strode on and sought sanctuary in her car.

  After ten minutes, a cold slap of air indicated that Cole had opened her door and was getting in.

  ‘Did he say anything important?’ I muttered, inwardly cursing her arrival because I had just begun to thaw.

  Cole sighed. ‘Not really. Just what they’ve all said – he told her what he did; she seemed to know a lot of detail; that whatever differences they have with the party, they thought she was an honourable woman – blah, blah.’

  I mumbled something incomprehensible. But then Cole said something which even the workers revolution in the Med couldn’t match in seizing my attention: ‘But he did say that Youssef Ali has contacted him a number of times recently.’

  ‘What?’ I said, staring at her.

  Her smirk said it all. ‘I thought you’d be interested in that. His job is water safety and Ali has called him over the last few weeks. Including . . .’ She paused for effect and to give emphasis. ‘Yesterday.’