Gone Underground

by Phil Brett

  She stopped mid-chew. Swallowing, she nodded. ‘Good thinking. I think you’re right. We’ll go to Battersea and then head straight for Hackney East to check out your theory.’

  The look on her face was one I hadn't seen too often. Was it one of respect?

  26. Pediastrum boryanum

  By the time we arrived at the Battersea sub-station, the early evening Saturday night revellers were emerging to juice up their assorted vehicles. It was one of the newer type stations that ran the Bell1304 chargers which could charge the average family car in less than a couple of minutes. What an average family was, I had no idea. With a capacity of thirty vehicles at a time, that made for quite a turnover. I had obtained these wondrous facts from my research on the way. I could wow with a lot more, if required. When built, the three story building had been hailed as a design classic both ergonomically – it actually took up comparatively little ground space – and aesthetically, with its curved white frontage. Cole wasn’t particularly interested in any of this. I’d have to save it for a dinner party. Maybe Groves would be more appreciative. Even if we didn't solve this murder, I was at least expanding my knowledge in all sorts of directions.

  We had arranged to meet Kairu Owiti here. He hadn’t been working today and had been at home with his kids, but once he heard that we were to be there in connection with Olivia’s murder, he had instantly agreed to come in. He’d seen Glen Bale’s announcement in the media and was keen to help.

  Outside the sub-station, a broken surveillance drone was hanging upside down from the roof with a large sign saying “No Drone Zone”. This was presumably post-revolution humour. Cole pointed to a tall metal stump where a CCTV camera had used to live. Now only its securing bolts were visible, looking ashamed that they had failed to do the one job which they had been given.

  I didn’t need to tell her that the workers of the electricity industry were one of the strongest supporters of the party, because that was well known. Evidently, they were proud of the fact, seeing that reception was littered with red flags, balloons, pennants and foam fists. It resembled a socialist toddler’s birthday party. Copies of Revolutionary Worker and sundry other groups' publications lay on the two coffee tables. Three tablets lay showing other publications.

  Above them, two of the three large screens regaled the visitor with fun facts about the sub-station and the quantity of power at present stored in each charger point. Happy was my heart that most appeared to be well stocked. On the third, the biggest, the party channel was showing news from Spain. Above it was a large framed photograph of Olivia Harrison, laughing, clenching a fist and posing by one the chargers here. Written on the glass, in bright red lipstick, in crude, almost infantile, but loving capital letters, was OLIVIA REST IN POWER.

  Kairu was in there, waiting – a tall, handsome man with a goatee and black swept-back hair. I could tell that he was type of person whose resting face was a smile. He was dressed in baggy jeans and a bulky white fisherman’s jumper, whose loose neck revealed a slim, dark, well-toned black skin. Grinning, he shook our hands. ‘Comrades, welcome. Good to meet you.’

  ‘Thanks for giving up your day off and coming in,’ Cole replied.

  ‘No problem. Olivia was a marvellous woman and a fantastic comrade.’ He pointed to the photograph. ‘I knew her quite well. Liked her a lot. We all did. I dunno how I can help, but if I can, I will. Come on through.’

  He pointed to the back, and we followed him in.

  The place was chocked with more agitational paraphernalia, making it look like a hastily conceived interactive display of the revolution created by a provincial curator with more enthusiasm than style. Even the bank of monitors showing electricity and temperature levels were drowning under campaign stickers.

  We sat down, despite the creeping fear that by doing so, we might get scooped up, stuck on a pole and used as a placard. Two women in their fifties looked over. Kairu not only introduced us but explained precisely why we were there. Their response was unexpected. They got up and came over to shake our hands. In no uncertain terms, they told us to get whoever had killed Olivia. Like Kairu, both were party members. Also like him, they held Olivia in the highest esteem, bordering on love. But after a minute, their eulogies abruptly halted. The same thing had occurred to them. Looking first at me, and then Victoria, realisation swept across their faces.

  ‘You’re the comrades who were involved in the Wiltshire thing!’

  I confirmed that we were, and for at least for a few seconds, I replaced Olivia Harrison as comrade of the month.

  ‘Promise us that the bastards who killed Olivia won’t get away with it!’ they passionately demanded.

  We did. We had to. No to have done so would have risked a charger being clamped to our extremities.

  ‘Good!’

  Never had that word manage to sound simultaneously supportive and hopeful, and yet so threatening.

  ‘What you did, comrade, was marvellous, bloody marvellous. They wanna creep around murdering innocent people, then they gotta take the consequences. Why should we waste democracy on scum who don’t believe in it for others? You did alright, comrade!’

  As they left us, Cole said wryly, ‘You’re fast becoming a legend.’

  ‘In the psychiatry world, I already am.’

  Her smirk turned into a grin.

  Kairu had finished saying his goodbyes and turned his attention back to us. He agreed with his colleague’s passionate urging. ‘She was well liked here,’ he needlessly explained. ‘So, how can I help you?’ He fiddled with a rather large watch on his wrist. And smiled.

  Cole led. ‘It would really help us if you could you tell us why Olivia came here Wednesday morning.’

  ‘Sure thing. She came in to see Terry, but he wasn’t here because he was working elsewhere, so I talked to her.’

  ‘This is Terry Walsh? I know this sounds an odd question, but did he have another name? Perhaps one he didn’t like using?’

  Still smiling, and fiddling a bit more with the watch, he nodded. ‘Indeed he did. How d'you know that? His birth name was Thierry, after some French footballer from way back when. But he said that he found it too pretentious for someone to be called whose only connection with France was a city break to Paris. So everyone just called him Terry, or even Tel.’ For a split second, the lips took a turn downwards. ‘Another one we had stolen from us,’ he mumbled.

  Cole wanted to be sure we were talking about the same person. ‘He died not long after Olivia, in the Hackney East tube explosion?’

  ‘Yeah.’ The watch was slid around his wrist. ‘Why? Do you think Olivia and Terry's murders are linked?’

  I was surprised that he didn't. Cole answered in her most neutral tone. Positively beige it was. ‘Maybe. Did she say why she wanted to speak to him?’

  ‘Not really. She asked me what he was like and what I knew of him.’

  ‘Which was?’

  ‘Not a lot. He pretty much kept himself to himself. I mean, he seemed an okay guy, but not what you'd call friendly. I really didn’t know much about him.’

  ‘I was going to say that you don’t seem too cut up about his death,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. I mourn the death of any comrade, but we weren’t friends. I worked with him, but I didn’t socialise with him. Perhaps I should have.’

  It was alright, comrade. We didn't have to be all bessie-mates.

  ‘Did anyone?’ asked Cole.

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘You called him a comrade – was he? Formerly, I mean, a member of the United Revolutionary Socialist Party? Or were you using the term loosely?’

  Kairu thought for a second, turning the watch as he did. He'd get a rash if he carried on like that. When he answered, it was in a voice heavy with thought. ‘Well, he said he was a member, joined back in his home town of Leicester. Not that he sounded like he was from there. To me, he sounded further north-west, but then I’m no expert. Lived in London since I was five.’

&n
bsp; Cole ignored the detail. ‘She didn’t focus on anything in particular about him? Specifically, about his politics or how he thought the revolution was progressing or his view of the NWC?’

  ‘No. Sorry, comrade. We just talked. Anyhow, he didn’t really talk about that sort of stuff. Actually, he didn’t talk about much at all. Quiet sod, he was.’

  ‘Okay, I see. It is just trying to get a picture of what she did that morning. We were told that she asked about the air conditioning here. Any idea why?’

  ‘No. Well, I suppose that’s because Terry was an air conditioning engineer, but why she'd be interested I have no idea. As it happens, I’m one too.’

  ‘And you have no idea why that would interest her?’

  ‘Like I said, no idea.’

  ‘You didn’t ask?’

  The question was a little too pointed. Too much from her previous life. I could see that he didn't appreciate a sense of being interrogated. Still, the smile remained. ‘No. I didn’t see reason to. I thought that she must have a good reason to want to know. I didn’t feel any reason to ask why.’

  Personally, I would have found it strange, to say the least, that a leading member of the revolution had found time to come and ask about the air con. But, he hadn’t. Obviously, he thought that it required no explanation. Did all members think we were micro-managing to that extent? What did he think we’d be doing next – Jackie Payne checking our radiators?

  If Cole thought it weird, she didn’t say so, but looking around the office, she asked, ‘Why are two air conditioning engineers required here?’

  Strewth, she was doing it now.

  ‘To keep the electrics cool. Safety precaution.’

  ‘Could you tell us what your job is?’

  He did so in detail. Painful detail.

  After he had finished, which probably had been after only a couple of minutes but seemed in length, the duration of the Roman Empire, neither Cole nor I spoke. I didn't from total numbness. Cole, though, was thinking. Maybe her flat got too hot in the summer. We'd had a few blistering ones of late.

  Finally, she spoke. ‘Thanks, Kairu. This is helpful. So, Olivia came here to talk to Terry Walsh, but she found out that he had been transferred to the underground.’

  ‘Nah, it was hardly a transfer. We work in both places. It’s part of the flexible working scheme. The systems are pretty much the same between that new tube line and here, so it makes sense to share our resources, including the human kind. Too much of this was wasted in capitalism, with engineers, scientists and technicians being used in competition and not in cooperation. The NWC hopes that by rolling this method of working out, we can be more efficient. So, we aren’t just based here. We work between here and the stations.’

  ‘So there was nothing unusual that he wasn’t here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So, who would have known that he had been sent to Hackney East?’

  He frowned, not understanding the reason for the question. ‘Er, well, it wouldn’t have been a secret, but, then again, there’s no reason to advertise it either. I guess the London East supervisor would have rung him, and if there was no pressing reason for him to be here, he’d have gone. Who he or the supervisor told, I have no idea. I suppose it would have been on the system. Assuming that it was up.’

  ‘And is that what happened?’

  He stumbled, trying to think. ‘Er, um, I don’t know. I would have to ask the supervisor. Do you want me to—?’

  ‘No, we will. Is there a record of it here?’

  He shook his head in the negative, but before he had time to say anything, Cole asked, rather abruptly, ‘Why not?’

  Again, I could see that he hadn't appreciated the sharpness. ‘No need,’ he replied simply. ‘We believe in trust, comrade.’

  If it had been meant as a rebuke, Cole didn’t take it as one. I could have told him that my fellow crusader against bourgeois reaction had skin as thick as a rhino’s. She was about as subtle as well.

  ‘So, did you know he was going to be there?’

  ‘No. I checked when Olivia arrived.’

  ‘Seems rather amateur to me.’

  For the first time since we had arrived, he grew a little cold. That smile of his wasn't glued to his face. She had just crossed the line. He didn't shout, but the friendliness had waned somewhat. ‘The workers here have agreed on the procedures, and, comrade, as we are the ones who know the work, I think we are the best positioned to decide on what is the professional way of doing things.’

  Ignoring his obvious irritation, Cole asked him if there was any more he could tell us about either Olivia Harrison’s visit, or about Terry Walsh. He said that there wasn’t, and the smile returned.

  ‘Any chance that you could contact the people at the Hackney East station and smooth our visit there?’

  After Kemal’s hacking fiasco, we needed to oil the wheels of cooperation. The famed Kalder charm might not be enough. It had been with Kairu, though. He went one better, and said he’d come with us.

  ‘Got a few jobs still to do there, and it would be good to see how everyone's coping after the attack.’ He went back to rotating his watch around his wrist. ‘As it happens, I was there when it went off. Luckily not in that part of the building. I was down the north tunnel, but I heard and felt it!’

  I refrained from punching the air and leaping to question him about it. That could be done when we got there. Instead, I played it ice cool. Polar cool. ‘What about your kids?’

  He looked confused. ‘They weren’t there!’

  I suppressed a sigh. ‘No, I mean, it would greatly help us if you travelled to Hackney East with us, but who will look after them with you gone? I mean, we don’t want to put you out.’

  He smiled, realising what I had meant. ‘Oh, no worries. They’re playing tennis with their Grandma.’

  ‘In this weather?’ I asked.

  He laughed heartily. I had no idea why. Playing tennis in this frozen weather seemed absurd to me.

  ‘No, no. Mum’s in Nairobi – they’re playing 3D crossnet tennis.’

  Cole smirked. ‘It’s called technology, Pete.’

  That hadn't been cool. I felt a chump. My embarrassment was hidden by us leaving and heading to the tube.

  On entering the station, it was pleasing to note that the heating was on. I suppressed an impulse to formally introduce Cole to the concept of public transport. She was rather old fashioned in her attachment to her car. With public transport now free, you could bet your week’s workers’ council’s vouchers that, be it noon or midnight, it would be busy. And it was so now. More passengers turning up every second.

  By the time the train arrived, there was a good size crowd on the platform. Silently filing into the carriage, we squeezed past an elderly couple surrounded by carrier bags. We got lucky and found somewhere to sit.

  Our journey had the three of us side by side, with Kairu in the middle, discussing the issue of a democratic new way of handling social disorder. It was an unfortunate positioning, because it meant that Kairu was forced to keep turning left and right to look at us. Thankfully, for the sake of his neck muscles, the journey only lasted a few minutes.

  Getting off the train, I heard Victoria make a call to Glen Bale, asking him to find out if anyone had investigated the tube station bombing, and if so, for him to send over any reports. It hadn't really registered with me. Just another attack.

  I was surprised that the station was still open and had been expecting a scene from the 1940s Blitz, but it all looked clean and correct to me.

  Kairu led us off the platform and through a side door, which he explained was the staff route. He led through a small, smoothly plastered corridor. I could smell oil and brick, which was odd because I could see neither.

  He opened another door and I saw a sight more befitting an explosion. Burnt cables hung from the walls, like cheese after going through a grater. Sheets of warped metal, which I presumed had once encased them, bent over in abstract strips. Ag
ainst one wall was what used to be a bench. At its centre, there was nothing – not the iron supports or the wooden seat – just a large hole, which had taken out a good chunk of the wall. My sharpened detective skills deduced that the bomb had gone off in here.

  Like the perfect host, Kairu showed us around. ‘This is the main power source for the station’s air conditioning. Along there,’ he pointed to the bench, ‘we leave our tool boxes on there. It was in one of them that the bomb was placed. In a plastic sandwich box, to be precise. It went off at just after seven in the evening. Killed five engineers. Good people . . .’ His paused out of respect.

  After a moment, he continued. ‘Kaheesha, Jon, Dan, Rzvan and Jenny. Comrades. Colleagues. Friends. Instant it was. Terry was just leaving and was partially protected by the door. He died later from his wounds. Too severe for the hospital to do anything about.’ He shook his head. ‘Six people died, for next to nothing. Absolutely nothing. All they managed to do was close the station down for a day or two, whilst the air con was repaired. Structural damage was minimal. The explosives weren’t powerful enough to break out of the room. The iron arches contained the explosion, and fire was prevented by the main power instantly switching off, isolating the circuit. I was working at the other panel, over at the other side of the station, when it went off. Everything went dark for a few seconds, before the emergency kicked in to supply the juice for the lights and, of course, the tracks. Did they really think they’d launch a counter-revolution by killing half a dozen engineers and stopping the trains running for a few days? Pathetic. A pathetic waste of life.’

  He stood looking at the blackened floor.

  ‘Did they know whose tool box it was?’ Cole asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Dunno. They didn’t say.’