by Mark Lingane
“It’s all black in there because it’s burnt. The bullet cauterized as it went. Something fired a white-hot bullet into the navel of this person from a distance. This is not normal, Harman. In fact it’s weird.”
“I wonder why the navel.”
“Umbilical cord comes to mind, the fragile tether between birth and life,” Clipper said. “I don’t know. Maybe it was just a political statement, but you have to admit it’s weird. She’s wearing a ring that I’m currently trying to remove. I think it bears closer scrutiny. You can give me a hand, as it were.”
“What do you want me to do?” Harman said uneasily.
“Grab the other side of the body and pull. I’ll grab the ring here and pull this end.”
Harman moved around the table to the other side of the body. He placed his hands delicately on her shoulders.
“You'll need a stronger grip than that,” advised Clipper. Harman braced himself. “Ready?” Harman nodded. “OK, now pulllll.”
The two stood there on opposing sides of the prone body. Harman fought for a better purchase on Friday’s slender frame. Both men were beginning to go red.
“Hang on a minute,” Clipper wheezed, and the two eased off. He put his foot against the table. "Ready? And puuulllll.”
Harman heaved until spots appeared in front of his eyes.
“I think it’s budging,” Clipper managed through clenched teeth.
There was a sudden sucking, and Clipper found he had acquired a ring. Harman, who hadn’t had time to stop pulling, collapsed on the floor in accordance with the laws of physics and found he had acquired another body. He screamed and pushed the dead body from on top of him.
“As you’ll notice here …” Clipper looked around to where Harman had been standing. He wasn’t there. “Damn, where’s he gone now?” Clipper looked around.
Harman crawled from underneath the autopsy table.
“Well, that’s on tight,” Clipper said.
“What was?”
“Is.” Clipper raised the ring to show Harman. It was still attached to the hand. The hand, however, was no longer attached.
“I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something wrong here,” Harman said.
“She seems armless enough now, though,” chimed in the assistant.
“Handy in an emergency,” noted Harman.
“I’m not taking any more of this.” With that Clipper threw down the hand with the ring still attached and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.
The assistant and Harman turned to look at each other.
“I think he’s a little rattled by the experience,” said the assistant.
“You’re not wrong there,” replied Harman. “I’ll be surprised if he can ever eat a sausage again.”
The assistant’s face transformed from a smile to an O of horror. Harman swung around to see what had grabbed her attention. On the floor where he had left it, Ruth Friday’s body was slowly dissolving.
“What the hell do we do now, Manber? No clues. We don’t even have a bloody victim anymore.” Harman was looking out of his office on the second floor of the police station. He felt disturbed about the day’s events. He was waist deep in murders every day, but they were all straightforward. Procedure got the murderer every time. This one felt different.
He saw Joshua walk out of the front door and head off along the street. “Keep an eye on Richards,” he told Manber. “I’ve got a feeling it’s not him. He’s only been in town for a few years and he’s never caused trouble before. He doesn’t come across as a dangerous person. Except when he opens his mouth. Then it gets him into all sorts of danger.”
“You want us to rough him up, boss?” asked Manber.
“No, just observe his actions. Sheesh. Are you sure you weren’t a thug before you joined the force?”
Harman turned and sat down at his desk. He picked up a pen and fiddled with it, lost in thought. His phone rang, startling him. He picked it up. “Harman.” He signaled for the junior detective to go.
“Yes,” he said to the caller. “No, I didn’t answer because I was interviewing a potential murderer … Not that I’m aware of … Yes, I’ll call if I’m going to be late. Is there anything you need me to bring home? It’ll be a busy day so I won’t be near the phone that much … No, nothing’s wrong, I said it was a busy day. So if you do call I might not be around. Just leave a message. … Yes, very busy … OK, yeah, you too. Bye.”
10
JOSHUA WAS RECLINING IN his chair in his apartment with only two legs on the ground. His feet were resting on the sill of the window, through which he was staring vacantly. A blue Cyber Cafe sign, proudly displaying the Internet logo, flashed across the road. The silence emanating from the cafe was a telltale sign they were having a good night.
There was a knock on the door and Mrs. Agatha bustled her way in. Her dress had been changed but the hair remained the same. “Joshua, there you are.”
“Look, Mrs. Agatha, I’m not really in the mood for this.”
“Eh?”
Joshua sighed. “WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU, MRS. AGATHA?”
“Christine, call me Christine. There’s an overweight food critic, a good man, who has been told by his doctor that he can’t eat so much anymore. Then all the good chefs start dying. Who is killing them?”
“I WOULD SAY THAT HIS CLOSE FRIEND OR AN ASSISTANT DID IT.”
“Amazing. Are you sure you haven’t read these?”
“I’m sure.”
“Eh?”
“I SAID I’M SURE.”
“I’ll get you one of these days,” she cackled as she shuffled out the door, which closed, locking out the world.
It was two weeks later when Joshua received another call. David Reaper was a jetsetter. Joshua didn’t really like him much but money was money and his rent had a habit of becoming overdue. The case looked quite interesting. It was more like old-fashioned snooping and finding-things-out detective work. It had been a while since he had used his brain, and he thought it was beginning to show.
“I’m coming into town for a couple of days to finish up a high-level company purchase, but I need to know a few things before I sign the final papers,” said the broad cosmopolitan accent. His words were interrupted by static coursing through the line. “I can’t be seen looking into it, as it would raise—how do you say?—suspicion. But you can. You’ve been recommended to me as being particularly good at this.”
Joshua was flattered. “Certainly. Just give me the details and I’ll open up a file.” Joshua reached for a pen among the turmoil of his desk.
“I, that is my company M-Division, is buying a company called True Shot. It’s a photographic company. The existing owners are Thomas Blewitt and Steve Hightree. I just need to know if these guys are legitimate and the company’s safe to buy. I think it should be fairly straightforward. If you have any queries or urgent news call me on my cell. Otherwise I’ll see you in a couple of days when I’m in town.”
“Just before you go,” Joshua said.
“Yes?”
“Just out of curiosity, who recommended me to you?”
“Jude Kilby, of course.”
“Ah yes, Jude. Of course.”
They exchanged goodbyes and hung up.
Joshua took out his phone directory and started to search. He thumbed through the pages and hunted for the listing. The directory failed to yield any information regarding True Shot so he rang The Phone Company to get the address. He managed to gnaw through three pens, two of which didn’t work anyway. He packed his surveillance gear and took off for the offices.
Joshua found True Shot in a rundown little alley. This surprised him. It certainly wasn’t on the fashionable side of town. The buildings lining the street were old, dusty and in a dilapidated state. He had seen toilets in better condition than these abandoned places, and known some that smelled better. There was no reason anyone in their right mind would want to come down a street like this, especially at night.
True Shot was almost a basement. It was part of a building that offered a cast-iron fence railing as security. To get to True Shot Joshua needed to enter a security code on an external pad next to the gate, open the monolithic construction and climb down to the offices. It was the bowels of the building and as such was warm and steamed. It certainly wasn’t what he was expecting. Rusted drainpipes sprayed the rain randomly, a large percentage of it falling on him. He regarded the offices from a hidden vantage point opposite. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Maybe it had some super high-tech secrets with which it led the world of photography. He scanned the nearby buildings for a suitable hiding place.
The building opposite was perfect. Well, perfect for his needs but not for human habitation. The roof was sagging dangerously after years of waterlogged and missing walls. Windows were in short supply and had been replaced by sheets of cardboard. The bricks were eroded and crumbled at a touch.
Joshua forced his way through the front door with his special boy-scout penknife, and was nearly overcome the overwhelming stench of damp and decay. He scaled the rickety stairwell that creaked urgently under his weight. Two floors up he found a window overlooking the True Shot offices. It had no glass and let in a strong and chilling breeze. It did offer shelter from the rain lancing in from the north.
Across the road he spied a secretary typing in one room and a man on the phone in another. He removed a pair of binoculars. Her holo-monitor was turned sideways and he was unable to discern what she was typing. He watched carefully and waited. Several people came past during the course of the day. Each time one entered, Joshua, using his binoculars, tried to make out the code they tapped out on the security pad. After the first three he realized he wasn’t going to get it. He hadn’t even managed to make out the first number.
He took out a boom microphone and plugged it into his minidisc recorder. He waited.
When another client or employee rolled up. Joshua readied the microphone and pointed it across the street. The visitor typed in the code and Joshua was barely able to discern the beeps coming from the pad. Still, above the noise of the wind, rain and nearby streets, he was able to make out the six different beeps. He replayed the tape many times, memorizing the sequence.
End of business came around and the two remaining workers turned off the lights and left. Joshua sat and watched. After several hours a cleaner came and busily dusted and vacuumed the rooms. Eventually the cleaner left, and the street became dark and empty. Joshua picked himself up and prepared to become a burglar.
He left his hideaway and located a dark place to cross the street. He hurried across after glancing furtively up and down the alleyway. He looked at the gate keypad and shrugged, realizing it was all too difficult. It was time for brawn over brain. He climbed up over the railing and landed heavily fifteen feet below on the concrete. He rolled back and forth, rubbing his shins and cursing gently. After the pain had stopped he squatted in front of the main door and examined the lock. It was a simple one and he had it open in under a minute. He eased himself into the building.
The office was plain to say the least. There was a desk with a word processor made up of a keyboard and a holo-base, and a filing cabinet. He turned on the word processor. While it was powering up he opened the filing cabinet. The room flickered in the green light emanating from the holo-monitor. It gave just enough light to see things by. The filing cabinet was full of photographs. He moved back over to the word processor. He moved the mouse around the screen floating a few inches in front of his face and flicked through the files. They all looked fairly standard: accounts and letters to clients, all up to date. He turned off the machine and quietly felt his way into the next office.
Here the outside light from a lone street lamp shone in, giving enough to search by. Photographs were scattered around the wall, obviously meaning something to someone. To his untrained eye they looked all right. He would never buy one but they filled in the walls nicely. He picked up the phone receiver and unscrewed the mouthpiece, carefully placing a transmitter inside. He screwed it back together, placed it back on the phone and made his way out. He locked the front door and stepped out on to the street, looking both ways to see if anyone was around then went home.
In the darkness of a nearby corner a match flared. A figure stepped out of the shadows and dragged heavily on a cigarette. The figure looked thoughtful for a while, stubbed out the cigarette then turned and left.
When Joshua got home there was a message stuck to his door. It was from a Jeff Na’hash, the director of a company called Rough Cut. There was just a phone number and the word Urgent written on it and underlined. Joshua wondered. Things were beginning to happen again, like the old days. Whoever Jeff Na’hash was, he could wait until the morning.
The morning came and Joshua, full of energy and excitement, set about his business. He felt good enough to tackle the cursed public service. For once they were helpful, although not too helpful because there was a principle at stake. They told him the company, True Shot, was a small one, with a good credit rating and a small turnover of funds. There was very little that was interesting about it. It wasn’t worth much and didn’t have any world patents or anything else to pique investor interest. He collected his facts, and went to do some spying.
The sun was rising above the city as Joshua looked down on the offices of True Shot. He camped in his derelict building and readied for the day.
The day was remarkably boring. All the calls were either about wedding photos or model portfolios. Evening arrived and the workers left. Joshua treated himself to a sandwich. The evening faded into night.
Joshua awoke startled by the presence of a car engine in the quiet street. Two figures emerged from the car and walked into the office building. He rubbed his eyes, trying to focus on the scene before him. In the office the lights flickered to life. Secret midnight meetings. This was more like it, he thought.
The two men were in the main office. Joshua turned on his receiver to listen in. It was dead. They must have found it. He quickly ripped out an object that looked like a raygun mounted on a tripod. He set up the gadget and sighted the laser on the window of the office where the two men were talking. A faint thin line shot out from the laser that was only just visible through the mist in the street. The infrared beam struck the wall by the window. He twisted the device until the beam fell on the window. He pressed a button on the side of the gun and a series of LEDs started counting. When they displayed 912 they stopped flicking backward and forward between the numbers just above and below.
Joshua hurriedly unplugged the headset from his receiver and plugged it into the eavesdropping device. He heard voices; they were faint but he was just able to make them out. It was old technology but it still did the job in a pinch.
“… you’re sure he’s going to bring the purchase amount in cash?” said the first man.
“Yes. That was the deal,” replied the second. He was short and fat.
“What do we do with the body?”
“We’ll just chuck him in the river. He won’t be recognized if he gets washed up. He’s not from around here,” Shorty said.
“Fine by me. We get the money and we get outta here. He won’t even know what hit him,” said the first figure.
“We need to call our man and tell him the deal is on, tell him to meet us here and then it’s so long, Mister Reaper. And thanks for the fish.” Shorty laughed.
The two men talked a bit more about unimportant things and eventually turned out the lights and left. Joshua was astonished. He had started out on a boring case and suddenly he was in the middle of a murder plot. He was excited. He had to get to Reaper and warn of his impending doom.
Elsewhere in the city two men were sitting in the back of a shiny black car, laughing. Not a cruel laugh but one of professionals enjoying their work. The driver looked ahead through the swaying windscreen wipers, lost in a trance.
“You think he bought it?”
“I can’t see why
not. He’ll call Reaper straightaway, and we can then move on to phase three.”
“Couldn’t have been any easier.”
The car drove off into the darkened city.
Joshua hurried back to his office. He stood dripping in the dark and breathing heavily. Murder was not a fun subject, and it was one that far too many people were studying, and passing. He grabbed a drink to steady his nerves. He reached for the phone and dialed Reaper.
“He-zsszszsz-vid-Reap-zsszszsz-eaking,” said a static voice down the line.
“Hello. David, is that you? This line is terrible. Is that better?” Joshua said doing the age-old fix-it of wiggling the phone cord.
“What?”
“I said is that better?”
“That’s Richards, isn’t it?”
“Yes. I have some good news and bad news. It’s pretty urgent.”
“What’s petty?”
“No, I said pretty. It’s pretty.”
“What’s pretty?”
“What?”
“What?”
“What? Wait. The deal.”
“What deal? Oh, True Shot. What can you tell me? Is it legitimate?”
“Yes, it all checked out fine. Proper records everywhere. Everything neat and tidy. A model small company, really.”
Static coursed through the line. “Ah, good,” said Reaper.
“But there is, however, a drawback. In fact, it’s got something to do with the price.”
“Do the little creeps want more?”
“No. Well, yes. But not money.”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you going to pay cash for this transaction?”
“I was,” said Reaper. “The company’s small and we can buy it out of our floating funds. It’s a great way of gaining tax losses.”
“Look, this is difficult. I bugged their offices, and a little while ago they had a midnight meeting. They were talking about killing you then taking the money and dumping you in the river.”
