You’re doing your best to keep your botox face in place. Otherwise, your eyebrows would be halfway to merging with your hair-line. Dodgy Dickie MacLeish is solid, unimaginative, and methodical: If he’s haring off in search of a homicidal pharmacist, then either somebody’s slipped him a Mickey Finn or all simpler explanations have already been ruled out. Which is very bad news.
“SOC did a complete sweep of the premises,” Dickie continues. “In the process, they found these.” He flicks up a picture of a wooden shelf bracketed to a whitewashed brick wall—a cellar, of course. There’s a neat row of sealed black canisters along it. You swear under your breath: You’ve seen their like before, fly-tipped in on-street recycling bins all over town. “Fabber cartridges. Unchipped, cheap knockoffs of the official product. These ones are all full of high-temperature thermosetting granules, presumably bound for a contraband factory somewhere in Edinburgh. They’re untraceable and illegal, and their presence suggests a connection to an ongoing investigation of DI Kavanaugh’s.”
You sit there, quietly fuming, as Dickie rolls unconcernedly away from his ambush of your unfunded project: If you’d actually been able to devote resources to following up the empties for the black-market fabber trade, you might have got to Mikey before someone killed him. “Anyway, this is where things get weird.”
The wall scrolls sideways to reveal a different bathroom demise. This scene’s helpfully labelled in German, as you recognize from the six syllable train-wreck attached to the tanning-salon sun bed.
“Dresden, Germany. This is the bathroom of Markus Hasler, a fine upstanding son of the city with a background in pharmaceutical spam, illegal sale of medicinal products, and counterfeit goods. That is a sun bed. At the same time our Mr. Blair was being plumbed into his personal jet wash—give or take a couple of hours—Mr. Hasler apparently drank half a litre of schnapps spiked with tranquillizers and climbed inside his sun bed. The control circuitry of which had been modified to override the safety shut-offs. He died in hospital yesterday without regaining consciousness.”
There is a low muttering and shuffling going on around you and you nod, unconsciously picking up on the vibe: the rest of the room realizing they’re in an out-of-Kansas situation. MacLeish continues implacably. “Both Mike Blair and Markus Hasler had prior conviction records in much the same field of criminal expertise. They died in notdissimilar manners as a result of incidents that commenced within three hours of each other.” He shifts from foot to foot. “There are reports of other, similar deaths in different jurisdictions this morning—that is, of persons involved in illegal network marketing activities, dying in circumstances superficially resembling domestic incidents.”
Dickie catches your eye. “I’d like to thank DI Kavanaugh for drawing the initial match to my attention, and Sergeant Cunningham for flagging the additional cases that came in while Liz was off shift.” Well that’s torn it. And so, yet again, Moxie escapes a well-deserved bollocking for playing fast and loose with the chain of command.
“As of this meeting, we’re continuing the investigation into the Michael Blair homicide. However, we’re going to have to recognize the need to integrate into a larger Europol investigation into the multiple parallel killings of at least two and possibly many more convicted criminals across member-state borders. And that’s why I’ve invited DI Kavanaugh to run the international liaison side of the investigation and provide input on the possible bootleg fabber connection.”
He’s got you, willy-nilly: drafted back into a CID murder investigation—and fuck your existing case-load and understaffed department. And there’s no way he can’t know what he’s doing to your performance metrics. Dickie is clearly out to get you: Once is happenstance, but twice is enemy action.
Someone’s going to bleed for this. And it’s not going to be you.
“—the bloody hell did you think you were—”
“—wisnae my fault, skipper! It’s tagged priority—”
“—doing going around the—”
“—one, mandatory escalate, so I pushed it at the duty inspector, and he—”
“—chain of command—”
Moxie raises his hands in surrender right as your frustrated snarl runs down.
You glance around. Then you stare into his eyes, hard. “Run that past me again.”
Moxie swallows. “Like I said, it was an urgent request for input on a homicide investigation. You were off shift, and there was a no-delay flag on it: golden forty-eight. So I pointed it at the duty desk. I havnae been telling tales out of school to Dodgy, skipper, please! What would you have done?”
“I’d have—fuck.” You restrain the urge to punch the corridor wall and draw a deep breath instead. The trouble is, Moxie isn’t wrong. “Who was on the duty desk?”
“It was Inspector Rodney, ma’am.” Sheila Rodney. Who doesn’t, as far as you know, carry a knife for your back. But who knows well enough to forward a lead to the Blair murder investigation.
“Fuck.” You take another deep breath. “Grab yourself a coffee, then see me in my office in fifteen minutes. You heard what Dickie said? That means your work-load just doubled for the rest of the week, so let’s go run through it before I have to go talk to the Europol investigators.”
“Fifteen minutes?”
“If I’m being pulled off ICIU for the duration, I’ve got to brief Doc Green.”
Moxie looks at you as if your dog just died, and you don’t have the heart to stay angry. You give him a gentle shove on the shoulder. “Get going, Sergeant. There’s more than enough shit to go round, this time.”
And then you head upstairs, across the walkway, into the adjacent block, and around the corner to Chief Inspector Dixon’s wee office.
George “Doc Green” Dixon is (a) your nominal superior, and (b) not interested in the day-to-day running of ICIU, outwith its potential to dump embarrassing shit in his lap without warning. George is old-school, trained up via computer forensics to occupy a trusted niche in CID (trawling paedophiles’ phones for evidence of thoughtcrime) while keeping one foot in the stirrup of the runaway horse that is Infrastructure IT.
He doesn’t have much time for ICIU—especially after the time he dropped round when you weren’t in, and Moxie showed him the Goatsedance video followed by a brisk webtour of the shocksites of Lothian and Borders, culminating in the infamous penile degloving accident fansite (which apparently left him with PTSD and permanent scarring on the insides of his eyelids). Ever since, he’s been more than happy to leave you alone to run your little fiefdom as you see fit.
George is a verra verra busy man, as he never tires of reminding you from behind the cover of his salt-and-pepper moustache. He probably thinks his manner is avuncular: You think it’s patronizing, but it’s not your job to pass comment. In any case, he’s effective. Before Dodgy Dickie dissolved the morning briefing, you’d already emailed Doc to beg a minute of his time, so you have no compunction about going straight round to IIT and hammering on his battered office door.
“Enter.” Doc looks up as you open the door. For a moment you think he’s playing a Sims game on his desk: Then you recognize the new annexe over the road. Sims, yes, but it’s some kind of architectural model—he’s probably looking for a way to shoe-horn more bandwidth through the crumbling concrete walls. “Have a seat. What’s come up this time, Liz?”
You can’t help yourself: You pull a face. “Have you been following Dickie MacLeish’s murder investigation, sir?”
“No.” He raises an eyebrow that looks like it’s got a sleeping caterpillar glued to it. “Should I have?”
“It’s a crawling horror. First, it’s gone political. Secondly, it looks like it’s not a one off. We’ve had contacts from Europol about similar killings in Germany and possibly Italy. It’s a three-sigma match or better—if they hadn’t happened simultaneously, we’d be looking for a serial killer. Anyway, the initial lead-in came via ICIU, and there’s an input angle from one of my current cases, so Dickie just
upped and announced that he’s drafting me to coordinate with the foreign investigators, without so much as a by-your-leave.”
“Well, that’s nice to know,” George says heavily. “Did he ask you first?”
You shake your head. “I’m not happy, sir. But it’s a murder case, and a high-profile one. It’d look bad if I kicked up a fuss.”
“Huh.” A long pause. “What do you want to do?”
You do not fail to spot the emphasis. “What I’d like to do is to get on with running my unit, sir. It’s not as if we’re short of work right now. Trouble is, he framed it as a fait accompli. If you want me to hold the fort, I’m going to need some backup.”
“Huh.” Another pause. “What are your alternative options?”
You hunch your shoulders uncomfortably. “I can shovel a bunch of routine stuff off onto Moxie and Speedy. If I hold back about eight hours a week for ICIU, shelve my skills-matrix update sessions indefinitely, and bail on as much paper-work as possible, then I can probably give Dickie and the investigation three and a half out of five shifts a week for the rest of the month. I think the unit can function without my hands on the tiller for that long, assuming nothing unusual pops out of the woodwork. But it’s going to be touch and go: All it would take would be one of my sergeants being off sick for a week, or another case like the Morningside Cannibals coming out of left field . . .”
(The Morningside Cannibals: a circle of polite middle-class people who dined out on each other, with the aid of a medical tissue incubator tank. Figuring out what on earth to charge them with—cannibalism not being illegal in Scotland—was the least of your worries when the blogs moved in. In the end, they were reported to the Procurator Fiscal for outraging public decency and corpse desecration: a flimsy case, as the defence barristers pointed out in court, given that the dinner parties in question were strictly private affairs, and the human flesh on the plates had been cloned from ladies who were not only still alive but willing to testify that their own cultured meat tasted nothing like chicken. In the end, the case had collapsed amidst recriminations and calls for a change in the law.)
Mention of the Morningside Cannibals has the desired effect: Doc winces visibly. “Aye well, Liz, that’s as may be, but let’s not pile up speculative obstacles before we get to them?” He leans forward. “It sounds to me like Dodgy Dickie has got your number: Best not fight him in public. Leave him to me. I’ll have a wee chat with Jackie Somerville and shake some resources loose from her department in return for your loan.” He fixes you with a gimlet stare. “Just promise me you didna fix this up to weasel your way back onto a CID case?”
You shake your head vigorously. “Boss, would I do a thing like that?” You catch his expression: “That’s live-rail territory. With respect, sir, if I wanted to apply for a transfer back to CID, you’d hear about it before it happened, and I’d be doing it with your say-so or not at all. Anything else would be grossly unprofessional conduct detrimental to the smooth running of the chain of command. Not to mention a real own-goal, career-wise. Right?”
A long pause, then Doc nods. “Exactly so, Inspector. I’m glad we understand each other.”
“So am I. Sir.”
“Get out of my office.” He waves genially to defuse the curt dismissal. “Leave Dickie to me; just be sure to set your house in order before you go haring off in all directions, and keep me fully informed. Dismissed.”
You get the hell out of Doc’s office, and you’re halfway back to the ICIU before you pause to wonder whether you’re being set up, or whether this really is your route back into CID after your long exile on the Rule 34 Squad.
Moxie is waiting for you in your office and, for a miracle, he’s brought you a mug of latte just the way you like it. He’s wearing an appropriately sheepish expression, which finally makes your mind up for you. “Chill, Moxie. I’m not happy, but it’s not your fault. Next time try to give me some more warning, okay?”
He looks relieved. “I wanted to, skipper, but Chief Inspector MacLeish scheduled you for the briefing before I could get to you.”
Before he could get to you through regular channels, he means, but you don’t pursue the point. “I’ve just had a little chat with Chief Inspector Dixon. He’s going to try and square things with the deputy superintendent to get some backup in here. But in the meantime, it looks like Dickie’s little empire-building gambit is working. I’m going to be very scarce around here for the rest of the month, or until Dickie gets his man. So how about we go over what you’ve got on your desk, what I’ve got on mine that’s going to be added to your case-load while I’m gone, and what extra resources you need to keep your head above water in the meantime. Yes?”
Dawning horror steals across Moxie’s face. “Whu—you’re leaving me in charge?”
“Up to a point. I’ll still be around, but only for about an hour a day.” (Rule #1: always budget 50 per cent more time for your people than you tell them you’ve got.) “Think hard before you escalate. Speedy’s off today: I’ll be repeating this chat with him when he’s back in. You’re going to have to co-ordinate with him directly, not through me. Meanwhile, your case-load: Show it to me.”
For about the next hour, Moxie subjects you to his team’s current case-load in all its mind-numbingly recondite, not to mention perverse, detail.
Publicity surrounding the Morningside Cannibals has led to a spate of copy-cat offences against sanity, some of them literally so (as in: There are folks dining on cloned haunch of pedigree Siamese tonight). There’s an anonymous perp randomly posting upskirt videos on neighbourhood blogs, captured by a microcam strapped to one of the too-tame squirrels in the Botanic Gardens. Moxie’s looking for the fabber source of some disturbingly simple meth-lab-in-a-brick chemistry kits that are circulating among the usual numpties in Lochend, and there’s the regular slew of urban-legend queries from the more gullible elements of CID to field. There’s the hentai fan base to keep an eye on, with their current interest in Hitler Yaoi and holocaust tentacle porn—still illegal in Germany, which is giving rise to cross-jurisdictional headaches—and their ongoing attempt to exhaustively explore the M girls N cups polynomial space in NP time, as a computer geek of your acquaintance once put it.
(You’re not quite sure what the NP time bit means, but the combination of cheap machinima tools and lots of unemployed games programmers have turned Edinburgh into a hot-bed of photorealistic fetish video production even though it’s technically illegal. The burden of evidence is higher under Scottish law, so despite having tougher porn laws than England, the smart shocksite developers have all moved north, while their development tools and websites have migrated into the Russian blacknet cloud. Fighting it is an unwinnable battle, so your job is merely to flag up anything involving real-live actors—especially minors—and try to avoid unwittingly popularizing the stuff via the Streisand Effect.)
At the end of the hour you’re just about reeling from the deluge, but you’ve given Moxie a framework for prioritizing his jobs over the next week, not to mention your home and personal mobile numbers and strict instructions to call you immediately if anything really fucked comes up. You can see he’s getting psyched up, ready and prepared to perform triage on Tubgirl should the need make itself known—right up until the moment your mobie rings.
You answer it. It’s Dodgy Dickie. Shit. “Wait one,” you mouth at Moxie. “Yes?”
MacLeish looks like his ulcer’s playing up again. “Inspector? Are you up to speed on the international angle yet?”
You bite back your instant reaction: “I’m in the process of clearing my desk and handing off all current ICIU operations to a subordinate. It’s going to take me another half-hour today, and a couple of hours tomorrow when my relief sergeant is in the shop. So your answer is a conditional ‘no,’ sir. Has something come up?”
“You bet it has, and it’s touching down at Turnhouse in an hour. We’ve got an investigator from Europol flying in to poke his nose where it doesn’t belong. I want y
ou to meet him and keep him the hell off my back. Is that understood?”
Your instant impulse is to tell Dickie to fuck right off, but the prospect of subsequently explaining your language to a disciplinary tribunal is not attractive. “I understand you consider my management of a secure hand-off of my departmental responsibilities is less important than what is basically a baby-sitting job, sir. I’m going to comply with your request, but not at the cost of making a hash of a bunch of other, admittedly lower-priority, investigations that are already in progress. I’ll take care of the busybodies, but you don’t tell me how to run my unit. Am I clear?”
For a moment, Dickie looks as if he’s about to blow a gasket, but then he nods, jerkily. “Perfectly.”
“Good.” You hang up, and check your desktop. Sure enough, there’s a stack of busybody IMs that have come in while you were briefing Moxie, insistently asking for you and demanding that you do this, do that, hither and yon. Dickie’s management style is to shoot at the monkey’s feet, make the monkey dance. Especially when the monkey was, ten years ago, number one in his graduating class, and as recently as five years ago, the number-one candidate for the post he’s currently occupying. You rub your eyes. “I’m too old for this shit,” you hear yourself say.
“Skipper?” Moxie is looking at you. “Anything I can do to help?”
“No, just as long as you’re clear on where we’re going. I’ve got to go out to the airport to meet a flight in. Cover my back?”
He sketches a videogame rendition of a salute. “Yes, ma’am!”
“Cool.” You finish reading the IM stack, then your tenuous control fractures like a sheet of toughened glass held for too long over a naked flame of rage as you see your contact details. “Shit.”
“Skipper?”
“That’s all I fucking need this morning. All.”
“What—”
Rule 34 Page 13
