by Phil Brett
‘Exactly. Anyway, it seems that for most of the Tuesday afternoon, Olivia was with the two comrades looking at the work histories of every single person employed there.’
‘You’re saying that, after leaving the South Downs fracking site, she goes to the human resources department and checks up on them?’
‘Exactly, Vic. She spends the previous day and a half there, and then researches the personal files of the employees who work there.’
‘Researches?’ I asked, thinking that the word meant, to me, spending days tracking down references to obscure, long forgotten artists.
Roijin explained. ‘They looked through the records of their employment in the industry – how long they have been working and where that has been. They then contacted any references given in the file and any people who could comment on them. From there, they widened the search to include each employee’s home neighbourhoods, contacting local area reps, community supervisors and such like. The two comrades said that Olivia didn't specify why she wanted all this done, but tellingly, she did say that it was a matter of security for the workers’ republic. But she was unable, or unwilling, to explain further. Seems she ended up having the entire office doing it.’
‘What sort of information did she want found out about the employees?’
‘Basically, Vic, what we used to call background checks.’ Suddenly, she caught what she had just said and gave a look which was the equivalent of putting her hand over her mouth to cram the words back in there.
I didn’t share their past, so I asked them to explain what this background check might mean.
Roijin might have been all coyness and shucks at admitting her history, but Victoria wasn’t. ‘It’s information gathering, so the police could paint a picture of what the person was like: had they any previous dealings with the law; their job, family, lifestyle, political views; what people thought of them. Putting it in a nutshell, Pete, what sort of person they were. Much as we’ve been trying to do.’
Okay, I got the picture. ‘So, did their “background checks” find out anything useful?’ I asked Roijin.
‘They say no – nothing. Everyone appeared to be legit. Many might be new to that particular extraction plant, but they had long service records in the industry as a whole. Many were not great supporters of the workers state, but there was no indication of any of them being involved militarily against us.’
‘So, she got the same result as us then.’
Victoria raised an eyebrow, ‘And Olivia expressed no concern about any of them?’
Kemal pulled a face. ‘So they said. Both guys said that no one rang any alarm bells. They did make the point that it had all been done in a matter of four or five hours, so they hadn’t had much time to do a thorough job. Although, I’ll be honest, I am not entirely sure that they would know what a thorough check was. After all, they’re basically office workers, not detectives.’
‘Hmm, so they didn't find anything which might be of concern?’ Cole asked. She was looking at Roijin Kemal, but her finger delicately stroked the name third from top – Thierry Walsh – our pal Terry – who had gotten himself blown up at Hackney East.
‘She didn’t say otherwise to them.’
I was pretending to follow this but was, in reality, becoming rather confused. ‘So, nothing seemed unusual. Nothing sparked her interest. Yet, there must have been surely something there that got her killed. It looks to me like we're going around in circles. Olivia is darting all over the shop, looking into this and that, and finding nothing, but still ending up dead.’
For a moment, the room was heavy with thought. Bale broke it. ‘How would that link to Foxton?’ he asked, the colour still not returning to his cheeks. ‘Foxton works in a housing allocation office – what has that got to do with fracking?’
‘Nothing,’ Cole replied.
Unless, I thought to myself, they were worried about the affect fracking had on local house prices. What the revolution hadn’t done to the housing market, redistribution had, so sales were hardly booming. Maybe real estate agents were rising up in rebellion.
Then again, maybe not.
Cole turned to face him, indicating with her hand that she had heard enough. ‘Glen, did you find out if anyone looked into the Hackney East bombing?’
He blew out his cheeks, maybe to get some blood back into them. ‘Sorry, I haven't had time, but that part of Hackney is covered by the East London Council. I know a few people there. Let me give them a ring.’
Cole nodded a brief, ‘Thanks’. Then to his, Roijin’s, and it had to be said, my surprise, she did not wait for him to make the call, but instead turned and walked to the exit.
‘Y-y-you going?’ he stammered.
‘Yes, Glen. Pete and I need to talk. Send us the name and number. Roijin, try your luck with Foxton – see if he says anything of value – including if he knows Terry or Thierry Walsh. I doubt he’ll be more accommodating to you than he was but you never know. Maybe a few hours locked up might convince him to be helpful. Perhaps, Roijin, you can amaze him with your pizzazz. Just mind his upper-cut. I have no idea what his secret is, but he has one. Then again, if he is our killer, then I’m Mary Poppins.’
She hadn’t called my name or shouted ‘heel!’ or ‘good boy’, but I knew she wanted me to follow. Bloody arrogance. Who the hell did she think she was! But I did. To go where or do what, I had no idea. For all I knew, we were off to fly a kite.
Bale’s jaw dropped.
We left.
Bale shouted after us, ‘What are we going to do about Foxton?’
Victoria was almost out the door, ignoring the panic in his voice, and without turning she coolly replied, ‘You’ll think of something, Glen.’
Roijin, though, had no intention of just staying here and scampered after Cole.
Catching up with her at the stairs, Roijin demanded to know what exactly our plan of action was going to be. Good question. ‘If you think Jack isn't our man, then why are we keeping him here? This will create merry hell when people find out. I've known you for a long time, Vic, and I know when you have a theory forming. Why don't you share it?’
Good point. I'd like to hear it too.
Cole replied in that rather irritatingly calm, know-it-all voice she used on me. It used to really bug me, but to be honest, I found it quite amusing now. It certainly was when it was directed at someone else.
‘Roijin, I haven't a theory, just a set of random facts. As for Jack, yes, it is an issue, but then he has lied to us, is still lying to us, and concealed an important fact that he was near the scene of Olivia Harrison's murder. It may be embarrassing for us, but Jack has got some difficult answers to give. Why? Have you a problem with that?’
Silly question really. We all knew the answer. She hadn’t stopped us from leaving because she wanted to give her blessing.
‘So, what's the plan?’
‘That, Roijin, is what Pete and I need to think about, whilst you are supervising the work here. I think we need space to explore our options, to think of a strategy, and we are not going to get that here. Very soon, this is going to be a mad house; which is not at all conducive to clear thinking.’
I may have been feeling a tad sensitive, but all things considered, she perhaps shouldn’t have said the bit about the mad house.
Roijin was annoyed, but not about that. ‘Him?’ she jeered. Disbelief and spite echoing up and down the stairwell. ‘You are going to “explore your options” with him! He should have been locked up. He would have been, if it hadn’t been—’
Enough was enough. Long running antagonisms could be fun. Being a sweet 'n' sour kind of guy, it allowed my sweet nature to turn sour, expressing my creativity in snide put-downs and acid sarcasm. But this had become a bore. Plus, my lip was swelling up and beginning to throb. Pain tended to make me less of a teddy bear. I couldn’t be doing with any more of this.
‘Why don’t you just give it a rest, Kemal,’ I hissed. ‘No one forced you to make that statement at my trial. I
certainly didn’t. As you have so often remarked, I wasn’t in total control of my mental faculties. For whatever reason, and whoever asked you to, and I can only presume that it was Victoria who did, you took the stand and gave your evidence. You made that choice. So, live with it. I have to live with my actions. Fucking live with yours.’
In front of me were two highly articulate women who were hardly your damsels in distress, so I was somewhat surprised to see them both look rather stunned at what I’d said. I thought I had been rather reasonable, but they clearly had been taken aback. In Roijin’s case, almost literally.
I continued. In for a penny, in for a workers’ credit note. ‘I thought you were getting over this prima-donna, holier than thou, martyr complex you have been nursing. This performance of wandering around, feeling aggrieved that somehow you aided and abetted my betrayal of the sanctity of the truth of the workers’ revolution is rather tiresome. I really appreciate that you wounded your newly found fucking integrity, but grow up and get over it. Like I said, I thought you had. Clearly, I was mistaken. Maybe it’s a way of assuaging all the shit you did before joining the party by coming over as the holy comrade Mary, but to be honest, comrade, I receive enough therapy myself without acting as yours. In the words of Dr Brakus, face it, process it and file it away. Or in my words – get a fucking life! And start trying to find the state sponsored terrorist! Do that, or piss off home to tend to your wounded morality!’
Roijin went to speak but didn’t. Instead, she looked at Victoria for comment. The one she received wasn’t the one she had expected. ‘To be honest, Roijin, whilst I wouldn’t have quite used his terminology, I agree with Pete. We need to stop this pettiness.’
She was stunned. Her hero had backed her opponent.
Actually, I was rather surprised myself.
28. Cardamine pratensis
Walking with what could only be said to be determination, Cole marched towards the reception. Al Handley was standing there, as he always seemed to be. Did he ever go anywhere else? Perhaps he had a sleeping bag tucked in the desk. This time, he was looking at a 3D visual sculpture. I trotted behind her, feeling something unusual: something which dared not say its name, something which should remain hidden out of shame. I was feeling pity for Glen Bale. We’d left him to play prison guard to an elected delegate of a workers’ council who at any moment would have NWC comrades angrily arriving, demanding his release and Bale's dismissal. The fireworks would make people think it was carnival time.
Cole didn’t bother with a greeting or enquiry as to whether Handley remembered her. She just got straight down to business. ‘Is there a room where we can talk for a few minutes? Without interruptions.’
I meekly stood behind her, my look conveying that he needn’t ask me as to what was going on because I had no idea.
He smiled and used his best public relations voice. ‘Yes, comrade. I think we can help you there. There’s exhibition rooms eight and nine. They’re being used for the regeneration projects, but I don’t think anyone is in there at the moment. They’re down that corridor and the second on left.’
He received a nod as a thank you.
On entering the rooms, we saw an assortment of models, pictures and 2D and 3D projections of the entries for the numerous public projects which were to take place in London. The first dozen or so were suggestions on what to do with the land which had previously been taken up by the grounds of Buckingham Palace. This was to be the final stage of the redevelopment of the former Palace. The building which had been occupied by the monarchy for centuries had been vacated before the revolution had even taken place. Parliament, in a vain attempt to appear left-wing and so head-off the workers’ movement, had declared a republic. They only slightly marred their republican image by hugely compensating the Royal Family and flying them and their assorted treasures to Canada.
Worthy plans to make the building into a museum and education centre had been initiated by Parliament but, frankly, the country had needed more than that. After the revolution, we had pulled down the garden walls, turning the gardens into a park, and we had called for ideas of what now could be done with the house and grounds. And here they were. Not that I had a chance to study them as Victoria was striding past them.
She came to halt at the end of the room by a projection of Parliament Fields, the future of which was also being debated. The protest camp which had faced Parliament’s protective ring of tanks had disbanded itself when we ourselves had taken over the tanks.
Alas, once more I didn’t have time to study the alternatives. She beckoned me to join her. She sat with her hands clasped together, as if ready to pray, but she wasn’t taking Holy Communion. She was thinking. It didn’t last more than a second. That was good, since I felt a little like a voyeur just looking at her. The sound of my phone receiving a message prompted her to speak. ‘Is that Glen?’
I looked. ‘Yes. He says that the person we need to call is Abal Shamoun: she’s the delegate from the East London council who is leading the investigation into the bombing.’
‘Good. Ring her. Hear what she says.’
‘Now?’ I asked, rather flummoxed at what was happening here. We seemed to be acquiring an ever greater work load and with no clear direction. What was going to be next – the Bermuda Triangle?
‘Yes,’ she said, thankfully to my spoken question, not my mental one concerning disappearing planes and ships in the Caribbean.
I shrugged. ‘Okay.’
I rang comrade Abal.
A woman in her twenties answered in 2D, hastily finishing arranging a blue scarf around her head. ‘Hello?’
I introduced myself.
She gave me a bright, wide smile. ‘Hello, Pete. I got a call from Glen Bale saying that you would ring. He said that you want to know about the bombing we had at the Hackney East Station here.’
‘If you don’t mind, Abal, could you tell me briefly about it?’
Cole clicked her fingers and pointed to space between us and a plastic model of Westminster Abbey. I did as commanded and put the conversation on projection.
Abal spoke, quickly but concisely, in a London accent, repeating what we already knew about where it had been placed.
‘Did you have a chance to talk to Comrade Walsh?’ I asked.
‘No. He never came out of his coma.’
‘Did you have any ideas what the target was?’
Once more, we heard only what we now knew about the size of the bomb and it having a pretty limited impact.
‘How was it detonated?’ I asked.
‘We found no traces of any remote control device. We think it was attached to the lid of his sandwich box. When the lid was lifted off, it detonated.’
‘But Walsh was at the door.’
‘Yes, which makes us think that it was an accident. Maybe the lid just came off, or it short circuited, or someone was helping themselves to his grub, but whatever the cause, it seems unlikely that anyone would choose to let it off there.’
‘But you think it was definitely brought in by Walsh?’
‘Certainly. The others all left theirs in the lockers.’
‘Have you looked into why Walsh might have taken it in there?’
If she was annoyed by the questions, she didn't show it. She seemed perfectly happy to help and spoke with a knowledgeable authority. I was beginning to wonder if she could transfer to our team. We could do with both.
‘Not really,’ she replied. ‘That’s ongoing. I can tell you there isn’t much on the man. He seems to have had very little personal history before he started working there. We also haven’t found any close friends. Or family. His flat doesn't seem to be much of a home, if you know what I mean. Virtually nothing there to tell you what he was like as a person. To be honest, comrade, we've got doubts whether he actually lived there. I mean, everything looks too new and unused. Like they were only bought a month ago.
‘That said, we can’t find any possible reason why he might want to sabotage a tube stat
ion. Or why use such a poxy bomb in an unimportant area?
‘He was known as loyal and hard-working party member and seemed happy with the direction of the revolution. So, we’re rather stumped as to what the possible motive might have been. Perhaps it wasn’t political. Colleagues said he seemed aloof and kept himself to himself, so maybe he had a grudge against someone, or maybe he had mental health issues. Sorry, comrade, that I can't be more precise. As the cops used to say, “our investigations are continuing.”’
Cole moved to stand by me. ‘Abal, this is Vic Cole, technical support on Olivia Harrison's murder. Can you tell me whether he had a computer on him?’
‘Hi. Sure. There was one in the bag, but it was vaporised. He did have a phone in his jacket. That was also severely damaged in the blast.’
‘Was anything useable off it?’
‘We managed to get partial numbers: some of them are just a few digits from made and received calls. We're going to see if we can use the server to trace them. We were going to do it earlier, but there’s not many of us and, like with everyone else, there's a thousand and one things to do.’
Sounding at her most friendly, Cole said, ‘I understand, comrade. We live in busy times. Would it be possible to send them to us? We think there might be a link.’
Abal thought for a second. ‘Sure. Why not? Give me a minute to access the file and I’ll ping it.’
‘Thanks, comrade.’
I couldn’t think of anything else to ask, so I said my goodbye as well. The line closed. Cole turned to me, ‘As soon as it comes in, link it with all known numbers for Youssef Ali and Olivia Harrison.’
Seconds later, they were sent: fifty-nine partial phone numbers, with the most complete being only 55% long. One stood out though, despite over half the numbers being missing. It was the latter section of a number we had both seen on many occasions over the past few days. It was Olivia Harrison’s.
There had been a total of four calls involving her. The first had been on Monday morning, at the approximate time which we now knew that Olivia had received a call at the wind turbine. The call had been made from Walsh's phone and had lasted ten minutes.
