They’ll have to escape soon, he thought, darkly. What happens when the economic crash finally destroys the welfare state?
“Glen?” Helen asked. “Are you alright?”
“I was just thinking,” Glen said. How long could Terra Nova afford to feed its unemployed and unemployable population? “Maybe we should go live somewhere else.”
Helen looked down at her food. “But what about my parents?”
Glen winced, feeling an odd chill gripping his heart. When had Helen managed to make her way into his heart? What would he do if she was taken away? Or what would she do if her parents were arrested and exiled for their role in shipping weapons to Terra Nova?
She isn't a pet, he told himself, savagely. And you should know better than to let yourself care.
He cursed himself under his breath as he finished his meal and placed the dishes in the sink for later attention. They’d been warned never to develop emotional attachments to suspects, no matter how sweet and harmless they seemed. Helen was not, technically, a suspect, but it made no difference. What would happen when the issue of her status was finally resolved?
It might not matter, he told himself, if Terra Nova falls.
“Set up the chessboard,” he ordered. “And then we can play.”
Helen smiled. “Of course,” she said. “Prepare to be thrashed.”
She was right, Glen discovered, twenty minutes later. Helen was a brilliant player, certainly better than he’d been at her age. Her uncle certainly hadn't been letting her win, he decided, as she pushed his pieces back across the board. There might be a great deal of nonsense published on making sure children had a win or two, to help build their self-esteem, but Helen didn't seem to need it. On the board, she was confident, definitely brilliant. It made up for her shyness ...
She grew up on a starship, he thought. There wouldn't have been so much else to do.
“Checkmate,” Helen announced. Her face was lit up with a brilliant smile. “You want to play again?”
Glen reset the board. “Why not?”
The second game was more even than the first – he didn't underestimate her – but Helen still won, slowly but surely. Glen congratulated her on her victory, then helped her to her feet when she started to yawn. She clutched his hand tightly for a long moment, before walking into her bedroom. Glen watched as she closed the door, then sat back on the sofa feeling tired and drained. And concerned about the future. What would happen to Helen after the investigation was wrapped up? And what would happen to him?
“It might be time to apply for a Colony Marshal post,” he muttered. He could do it, if he applied. God knew he had the experience and then some. But it would mean abandoning Terra Nova. And he’d be practically kidnapping Helen. “But what would I do with her?”
He closed his eyes and went to sleep. It felt like mere seconds before his terminal started to bleep.
“Glen,” the dispatcher said, when he keyed it, “we’ve had a breakthrough. The boss wants you to report to the station ASAP.”
Glen glanced at the time. It was 0632.
“Understood,” he said. “Do I have time for a shower and a change of clothes?”
“Boss wants you in at 0700,” the dispatcher said. “You might want to hurry.”
“Right,” Glen said. He swore, mentally. Getting to the station on time would be tricky even if he left immediately. There would be no time for anything, but a can of cold coffee. “I’m on my way.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Planetary Police were raised and trained on their homeworlds. They were not always perfect, but they did have ties to the locals and the ability to know what should and what shouldn't be in their local areas. Furthermore, they were well-trained and equipped for forensic work. And they were often quite popular.
- Professor Leo Caesius. The Decline of Law and Order and the Rise of Anarchy.
“Glad you’re both here,” Patty said, as Glen and Isabel entered her office. “There’s work for you to do.”
Glen exchanged a glance with Isabel. “Work, boss?”
“Yes, work,” Patty said. She sounded as if she’d managed to catch some sleep between sending Glen home and recalling him to the office. “The tasks you do for a living.”
She cleared her throat, loudly. “The backroom staff kept grinding through the data recovered from the warehouse and the shipping firm,” she said. “They came up with a lead that needs to be investigated, as soon as possible. As you are already working the case, you will take the lead on this.”
“I’m starting to get whiplash,” Isabel commented, wryly. “How are we supposed to get anything done if we keep hopping from case to case?”
“I can start cutting your spare hours, if you like,” Patty offered. She tapped a switch and a holographic image appeared in front of them. “This gentleman is called Wayland Nards.”
Glen leaned forward, studying the image. Nards looked young, no older than Isabel, but he had an air of indolence that suggested he wasn't used to working with his hands for a living. And his paunch, and his balding head, suggested he didn't really care what he looked like, as he could probably have afforded cosmetic surgery.
“A bureaucrat,” Glen guessed.
“A Senior Shipping Officer,” Patty corrected. She smirked. “Which is pretty much the same thing, really. Point is – this is the gentleman who cleared the crates of weapons to pass through the security network without inspection and who signed the covering papers for the transhipment warehouse. There should have been at least two inspections of the crates as they were moved down to the surface. This ... person cleared them without inspection.”
Glen’s eyes narrowed. “Is he a Nihilist?”
“We assume he was bribed,” Patty said. “His account shows a number of payments from various single-use accounts that were, we assume, created specifically to fund Nards. Each of them were just under the reporting limits, but collectively they add up to quite a considerable sum of money. His lifestyle is also too luxurious for his legal income.”
“He probably collects a lot of bribes,” Isabel said. “Shipping delays alone can be more costly than paying off the bureaucrats supervising the process.”
“No doubt,” Patty agreed. She looked up, meeting Glen’s eyes. “This guy might be able to lead us to the Nihilists, Glen. We need to take him alive.”
Glen nodded, slowly. One bureaucrat without any combat training. It shouldn't be a problem, but they’d take every precaution, regardless. A glance at the file showed him that Nards lived in a built-up area, rather than one of the gated estates normally occupied by government workers. It was an odd choice, even assuming Nards was trying to make a show of living within his means. But there were no prying eyes in the place he’d made his home.
“There isn't any manpower available to assist you,” Patty warned. “And that place is notoriously restive. I’m assigning a snatch squad to accompany you.”
“Those clowns,” Isabel said. “I thought they would be busy beating up the wrong people.”
“There’s no one else to send,” Patty said. “And you may be grateful to have them.”
Glen sighed, then nodded. “We’ll go now,” he said. He thought, briefly, of trying to call Nards into the office and grabbing him there, but it was quite likely that the bureaucrat would smell a rat. The bureaucrats had great working hours and no overtime. “Or do we have time to wait for him to return to the office?”
“No,” Patty said. “We’re looking at his backlog now, but we don’t know how many crates he might have let through the net. I think we need to snatch him up as soon as possible.”
“Understood,” Glen said. “Will there be additional backup?”
“Only if desperately necessary,” Patty said. “There’s a handful of SWAT teams on standby to serve as emergency reinforcements, but just about everyone else is out on the streets, trying to keep the lid on. And it isn't enough.”
Glen nodded, sourly.
***
“You know, the next person you try to spy on might just put a bullet between your eyes,” Belinda said, pleasantly. She’d expected trouble, although nothing quite so blatant. “And where would you be then?”
“Worth it,” Hammerfest said. He managed to sit upright, one hand rubbing his bleeding nose. “You’re gorgeous.”
“And deadly,” Belinda said. Being naked in front of him didn't bother her, not after years in various barracks. “Next time, I’ll break something less vital than your nose.”
It took Hammerfest a moment to realise what she meant. And then he howled with laughter, honest genuine laughter, as if she’d made a hilariously funny joke. Belinda rolled her eyes, then reached for her uniform and dressed quickly. Hammerfest made no move closer to her, even after he stumbled to his feet. His nose was a crooked bloodstained mess.
“Go have that fixed,” Belinda ordered. Broken noses were common injuries in the Marines and, she assumed, it was true of the Civil Guard too. “And then report to the briefing room.”
She finished dressing as he stumbled out of the room, then followed him down towards the briefing room, where Fraser was waiting for her. The remainder of the squad had already joined him, somewhat to Belinda’s annoyance. She wasn’t actually late – the meeting wasn't due to begin for another ten minutes – but it made her look inefficient. She controlled her irritation as Hammerfest entered the room, a surgical mask placed carefully over his nose, and took a seat next to her. His raspy breathing was more irritating than his half-assed attempt to spy on her in the shower.
“There have been developments,” Fraser said. If he was curious about Hammerfest’s broken nose, he showed no sign of it. “You and your squad will be accompanying the Marshals as they make an arrest.”
Belinda leaned forward, interested. “The Marshals?”
“Indeed,” Fraser said. “They have a lead and they need some armed backup. You’ll get the rest of the briefing from the agent in charge, so draw your weapons from the locker and remember the rules of engagement.”
“Of course, sir,” Hammerfest said, too loudly.
Belinda winced, inwardly. Rules of engagement were problematic even when highly-trained Marines were involved – and their practically-minded superiors were responsible for drawing up the ROE. The ROE she’d been given as part of a snatch squad looked to have been written by several different sets of lawyers, each one with different priorities. She was authorised to use whatever level of violence she deemed necessary, but she was also to avoid doing anything that might alarm civilians or result in a bloodbath. There were so many contradictions within the ROE that she would have made an official complaint, if she’d thought it would get her anywhere. It was impossible to do almost anything without infringing one of the contradictory requirements.
They could justify or punish anything, just by pointing at the right part of the ROE, she thought, crossly. And idiots like Hammerfest will always err on the side of violence.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. She rose to her feet and motioned for the squad to follow her down to the weapons locker. As always, there was a bureaucrat sitting outside, ready to demand paperwork in triplicate. Belinda ignored him and turned to face her subordinates, her expression as grim as she could make it. “Take weapons and stunners, but leave the weapons unloaded until I give the command.”
Hammerfest snorted, rudely. “And what happens if we need to open fire?”
“I will order you to load your weapons and open fire,” Belinda said. She’d seen the team shoot – and she had a private suspicion that they would be more dangerous to each other than the enemy. Hammerfest wasn't a bad shot, she had to admit, but the others were appallingly bad. If there had been time, she would have forced them to go back to the shooting range and practice time and time again. “Until then, you will keep your weapons unloaded on pain of a beating.”
She glared at him until he lowered his eyes. Dumb muscle. That was all he was, with a little lechery and misogyny rolled in. Someone too stupid to realise how his career was at risk, someone so thick-headed that the only way to get him to obey was to beat hell out of him every time he questioned his orders. She longed, so intensely it was almost painful, for a trained company of Marines. Hell, she would settle for Auxiliaries with some proper weapons training. So far, she hadn't seen Hammerfest point his gun at his own head, but she was sure it was just a matter of time.
“The van’s outside,” she said, once they were tooled up. She had no idea why Hammerfest wanted so many weapons, but she wasn't disposed to argue. “Let's go.”
***
“Why the fuck does he live here?” Isabel asked. “It's a fucking dump.”
Glen nodded in agreement. Kinabalu District might have been nice, once upon a time, but it was definitely suffering now. The houses were dirty and grimy, huge piles of uncollected rubbish lay everywhere and the handful of people on the street kept looking down, refusing to make eye contact. He caught sight of a number of children playing in a side allay, wearing nothing more than rags, and winced inwardly. There were no social services here, no one who might take the children away from unfit parents. But then, the people who lived in the district might actually fight back.
“We really should move them to a CityBlock,” Isabel added. “They could be cared for properly there.”
“That would also cost the government money,” Glen said, as they passed another pile of rubbish. “And how many of them would want to move?”
He considered it as they drove past a burned-out shop. The CityBlocks were meant to be able to supply everything their customers wanted or needed, from food and drink to clothes, entertainment and employment. But Glen knew better. The food was bland, the drinks were often poor and there was little chance of actual employment. And the Block would be dominated by a gang of social workers or outright thugs, depending on how strong the administration actually was. There were probably good reasons for the residents of Kinabalu to stay where they were.
Isabel turned to look at him as they reached the unnamed street. “And why is Nards living here?”
“The atmosphere,” Glen guessed. He parked the van, then opened the door. The stench – he didn't want to think about what was producing it - struck him like a physical blow. “Or maybe he just wants to be out of public view.”
“I’d say he succeeded,” Isabel said. “There aren’t any cameras here, are there?”
Glen shook his head as the snatch squad parked behind them. The squad itself looked terrifyingly incompetent, save for the blonde-haired leader, who carried her stunner as if she’d been born to handle a weapon. She had to be impressive if she managed to dominate her subordinates, Glen decided, then he pushed the thought to one side and turned to walk towards the targeted house. God alone knew what they’d find inside.
“Come on,” he ordered. “Let’s move.”
The house was as dark and grimy as the remaining houses – and seemingly deserted. Glen knocked on the door and listened, carefully, but heard nothing. He hesitated for a long moment, then pulled a multitool off his belt and went to work on the lock. There was a click as the door opened, allowing him to step into the house. The scent of rotting meat greeted his nostrils as he slipped inside, shining his flashlight from place to place.
“That’s dead flesh,” someone muttered. It took Glen a moment to realise it was the blonde woman. “And it’s been dead for quite some time.”
“Stay here,” Glen ordered.
He stepped forward and peered into the living room – and froze. A
dead body sat on a chair, peering accusingly at him. It wasn't hard to identify the body as belonging to Nards. He swore, then took his camera from his belt and started taking pictures of the crime scene, recording as much as possible for the backroom experts. It was unlikely the crime scene would remain undisturbed once the locals realised the house had been effectively abandoned.
“Cause of death; slashed throat,” Isabel said. She leaned close to the body without actually touching it. “No other obvious signs of damage.”
Glen nodded, then let her inspect the body while he checked the rest of the house. It was surprisingly bare, given how much money Nards had been collecting; Glen puzzled over it for a long moment, before putting the issue on the backburner. Maybe Nards had been courting a wealthy high-class woman, or had a gambling addiction. It was certainly not unknown among the ones who longed to be rich and powerful. He peered into the bedroom and swore out loud. Four bodies lay on the bed; one woman, three children. They all looked surprisingly peaceful.
“No obvious cause of death,” he said, for the benefit of the recorders. He took a handful of photographs, then took a closer look. One of the children had lips that had turned blue. “Poison seems the most likely cause, based on observation. There are no signs of sexual or other forms of assault or restraint. Time of death unknown, but judging from the lack of visible decay probably not more than two or three days ago.”
“The forensic staff will have to come out here,” Isabel said, as she entered the room. “If the killers left clues behind ...”
Glen shook his head. “They’re not likely to come,” he said. “Everyone is busy with the rioters right now. And ... well, here.”
The Thin Blue Line (The Empire's Corps Book 9) (v5.1) Page 23
