Night Sessions, The (13 page)

“Right,” said Ferguson, standing in front of the whiteboard and still smarting from McAuley's encouragement, “what have we got?”

Tony from Forensics spoke first.

“The leaflets, sir. No unmatched DNA. Just the professor's. But we've got something on the ink.”

“Yes?” said Ferguson, hopefully. “A match with a batch?”

“Not exactly, boss. It's a bit more exciting than that. The leaflets didn't come off a printer. They were done on a printing press. I mean, literally, a press. A mechanical device with inked metal letters—”

“Yes, Tony, I think even the youngest here have some dim idea what you're talking about. How does that help us?”

“Well,” said Tony, “the actual ink hasn't been manufactured for twenty years. The paper's standard copier, nothing traceable. But the ink is unique. If…”

His voice trailed off.

“Quite,” said Ferguson. “If we find the printing press, and the ink supply, we'll have the bastards bang to rights. Yes?”

“That's about it, boss.” Ferguson raked his fingers backwards through his hair, sighed. “Thanks, Tony. Next?”

Connolly and Hutchins looked up from a huddle, then at each other in a “you first” way.

“Shonagh, please?”

Hutchins stood up, brandished an iThink. “Got a photofit image of the alleged suspect ‘Graham,’ sir. Connor Thomas said it was a good likeness. I'll just patch it up for everyone…”

A flutter of fast blinking and a flicker of leki infrared went around the room. Ferguson gazed at an eyeball image of a young-looking, good-looking man, full head of hair, distinctive features, open-necked shirt.

“This is a
mutilado
?” he said.

“The imperfections of the prosthetic don't show on this resolution,” said Hutchins. “And upping the res wouldn't help, because it's very hard to reproduce the effect with the standard rendering tools.”

“OK, OK,” said Ferguson. “So…we're looking for someone who looks just like this, but not quite.”

“Exactly,” said Hutchins, missing or ignoring the sarcasm, to Ferguson's relief because she didn't deserve it.

“Well, fine, let's get it out there,” said Ferguson. “To the force, not to the media. Dangerous man, report at once, don't approach without back-up, that sort of thing. And PNAI, obviously.”

“The PNAI has a package for all that,” said Shonagh, thumbing fast. She looked up. “Done.”

“Good,” said Ferguson. “Any progress on IDing the bugger?”

“Uh, that's where there's a problem,” said Connolly, standing up as Hutchins sat down. “We sent Paranoia churning through Army records, but it got lots of hits on low-res ID-card photos and couldn't narrow it down much, because obviously the biometrics of the photofit are too vague and the Army's biometrics are too precise. So then we used Ogle Face, with all the parameters: soldier, massive head, chest and limb wounds, robotics specialist, Middle East theatre, possible association with the Royal Irish or any regiment that served
close to it, and of course the name. And we got one. Lance-Corporal Special Technician Graham Orr. Here's the best pic.”

He patched it in beside the photofit “Graham.” This new picture was of a proud lad in a private's uniform and cap. The match was as near perfect as a photofit could be expected to be.

Whistles and cheers.

“Bingo,” said Ferguson. “Good work.”

But Connolly was shaking his head, Hutchins looking grim.

“Just one problem,” said Connolly. “Lance-Corporal Orr died of his injuries in the medevac chopper, between Megiddo and Cyprus.”

Ferguson took a deep breath. “That's absolutely certain? No stupid stuff like a twin brother, or corrupted records, or a mix-up?”

“Checked all that,” said Connolly. “Funeral, grieving parents, only son. Presbyterian Church service, interestingly enough. All in the
Belfast Telegraph
within the fortnight.”

“There were a lot of funerals that particular fortnight,” said Ferguson. “As I recall. A lot of mangled corpses. There might just be some tiny possibility of confusion. We're talking about fucking Armageddon here, people!”

They were all staring at him. He rubbed his forehead. “Sorry, everyone. It's been a tough day. OK, let's get searches running on the name, and Shonagh, could you link through to whoever's on at the Western General, see if that other woman's husband, uh, Derek Broughton recognises the name or the face.”

“Sure,” said Hutchins.

“Inspector Polanski, any progress to report before you leave?”

“Not much,” said Polanski. “The lekis have crawled all over that headland housing estate, and they haven't found a sniff of anything suspicious. But before I go, sir, I'd just like to reiterate the importance of keeping surveillance on Connor Thomas.”

Ferguson nodded. “It's being done. Sergeant Carr?”

“Car outside, cameras from a distance, foot tail ready to go.”

“Phone tap?”

“Sheriff's office signed it off an hour ago. Paranoia's onto it, sir.”

“Good. Happy with that, Anna?”

“Yes, sir. Still not sure he didn't do it, if you don't mind my saying so. The latest I've heard from my colleagues is that the victim took a regular walk at lunchtime along the East Sands embankment, which is where he was shot. He insisted on keeping up his routine today, despite our having an armed guard on him. So the sniper may well have known when to expect him.”

“Very likely,” said Ferguson. “The fact remains that it would have been an incredibly difficult shot to pull off, and that the killer might also have known that Connor Thomas is a man of likewise regular habits. But then, if it was a set-up…” He spread his hands. “We've been over all this. Discussing it further will get us nowhere. Feel free to leave, Polanski.”

“Thanks, sir. If you don't mind.”

She was just gathering her document folder and bag when Skulk waved a tentacle.

“Yes?” said Ferguson.

“I would urge Inspector Polanski to ask the Forth Maritime Security Centre for an immediate system check on the coastal mechs around St. Andrews.”

Polanski glared at the machine. “Why don't you do it yourself?”

“I'll take that as permission from Fife Constabulary to make the request,” replied Skulk.

“You do that,” said Polanski, picking up her stuff. She nodded at Ferguson and made for the door.

“Don't waste too much time on it,” Ferguson added.

“No,” said Skulk. “I only mentioned it because the PNAI has just found some matches for the pictures of Graham Orr.”

“What?” shouted Ferguson, as Polanski stopped in her tracks and half the room stood up. “Patch them in, patch them in!”

They looked at the scrolling samples of image captures: security-camera glimpses, eyewear uploads. One or two recognisable Edinburgh backgrounds: the West Port, Grassmarket, some Leith backstreet overlooked by the cranes of Constitution Dock, Waverley Station platform…

“Got an ID?” Ferguson asked.

“It's a robot,” said Skulk. “Name of Hardcastle.”

Earlier that afternoon of Friday, 4 September, the artist formerly known as Dave Warsaw opened his eyes and lay still for a few seconds until he remembered who he was. Ah yes. How it all came back. And beside him on the pillow was Jessica, bless her, mouth open and snoring, which she would deny when she woke up. Must be lying in a funny position, her feet were—

Wait a sec. These weren't Jessica's feet. Dave sat bolt upright, lifted the duvet, and peered underneath, to find a head of messed-up black curls resting against Jessica's ribs. Dave smiled momentarily at the thought of having had another girl in the bed, and then jumped again as he recognised Mikhail Aliyev. Who definitely wasn't a girl, despite all external appearances. The memories of the previous night restored from back-up with a vividness that made Dave's head spin.

He'd finished his gig, set the music to a shuffle of bland, and moseyed back with a final clutch of drinks to the booth where Jessica and Aliyev had still been sitting, deep in conversation. He'd found them not just talking but flirting—Jessica had evidently found Aliyev's peculiar gender rearrangement a kink not too far at all—and somehow, without Dave's ever quite agreeing, they'd ended up all going back to the flat together. And then, in much the same way, going to bed together.

Dave groaned, and climbed out of bed. He picked his way through discarded clothes—most of them Aliyev's—and padded to the bathroom with questions hammering his skull like investigative reporters at a door.

They'd all taken
what
? They'd all done
that
? And
that
? And then—

Yes. They had. And then some.

Oh, so to speak, fuck.

After ten minutes under the shower Dave began to feel better. He shaved, put his clothes on very quietly and went through to the kitchen. He brewed coffee and burned toast and washed down various pills with cold orange gulps. The hangover retreated. Dave wasn't ready to put his contacts in, so he downloaded his usual selection of news to a reader and skimmed it while he
had his breakfast. He hadn't finished either when Aliyev strolled in, wearing one of Jessica's shorter dressing gowns, hem trailing.

“Morning,” said Aliyev.

“Afternoon,” said Dave. He waved at the coffee pot. “Help yourself. Toast, cereal, juice.”

“Uh, got any painkillers? I am one very sorry
rori
this…afternoon.”

“Jar on the shelf.” Dave pointed.

“Thanks.” Aliyev took the tabs and busied himself for a few minutes at the percolator and toaster. Dave went on reading until Aliyev sat down opposite him at the table.

“Um,” said Aliyev, running fingers through his hair.

“Well,” said Dave.

“Some night.”

“Yes.”

Aliyev's gaze wandered. “Interesting decor.”

Dave looked at the posters on the walls, and at the candlesticks and skull-shaped ornaments that shared the shelves with crockery and cookery books. He had long ceased to notice it.

“I sort of leave that to Jessica,” he said. “I just paint and fix.”

Aliyev laughed. “Choosing the colour isn't a problem.”

“Never thought black was right for a kitchen, but we could never agree, so I just paint it white and Jessica covers it with the posters.”

“Thus turning it mostly black. Right.”

Aliyev returned to his toast and Dave to his news.

Jessica bounced in a few minutes later, wearing a black T-shirt and leggings and thick-soled black boots, and her hair pinned up.

“Well, hello, boys!” she said. “Hah, don't your faces look a picture! Lighten up, guys.”

She ran a hand across Dave's hair and then through Aliyev's, helped herself to coffee and stood at the window, gazing out at afternoon sunlight on the small, walled feature of the ground-floor flat that had been advertised as a garden and that she and Dave never referred to as anything but “the back grass.”

“What a great day! What day is it? Oh yes, Friday.”

Jessica pulled up a chair beside Dave and facing Aliyev.

“A good day to shop,” she told the latter. “Dress-up Friday at Armstrong's.”

“I'm familiar with it,” said Aliyev. “But first we have to plot. And then I have to report in.”

He caught Dave's alarmed look.

“Don't worry, nothing personal. As far as SB is concerned, it is just a matter of handler and informants. They are not interested in details.”

“Handler?” said Dave. “How great that makes me feel.”

“You were well and truly handled,” said Jessica.

“Thanks a lot.”

“You seemed to enjoy it at the time. Never knew you had it in you!”

Jessica and Aliyev laughed. Dave squirmed.

Aliyev reached across the table and laid his hand on Dave's.

“It's all right,” he said. “I understand. Many people find themselves feeling a little abashed after their first time with a secret policeman.”

At that Dave had to laugh.

“All right,” he said. He reached for the coffee pot, found it empty, and stood up to refill it. “Speaking of which…You want to plot. OK, let's plot.”

Aliyev nodded. “Got some scrap paper?”

Jessica passed him a pen and the shopping-list pad. Aliyev opened it to a fresh page. He stared down at it, then rubbed the side of his head.

“Wait a minute,” he said. He disappeared down the hallway and returned with his handbag. He took out an iThink and a pair of phone clips and a contacts set.

“Might as well get washed and dressed before I put these on,” he said. He looked up. “Sorry. Won't be long.”

Dave took the coffee pot to the table.

“He has a point, you know,” he said.

“About what?”

“Being with a secret policeman.”

Jessica guffawed. “That's what's eating you?”

“It's a bit of a risk, that's what I'm saying. We don't know what he might drag us into.”

“He dragged you into—”

“For fuck's sake, Jess! Can you just lay off with the innuendos?”

Jessica mimed a recoil. “OK,” she said. “OK. Maybe it is too early in the day for that. So what's the problem? I think it's…
exciting
.”

Dave was sorely tempted to zing back an innuendo of his own, but he let it pass.

“He's looking for Gnostics who might have blown up a priest for the hell of it? If he's right—I'm not saying he is—we'd be messing with very dangerous people.”

“Don't be such a wimp,” said Jessica. “Didn't you pay any attention to civics at school?”

Dave snorted. “Didn't pay much attention to much. Don't know much sociology. I think there's an old song about that.”

“Yeah, and don't I know it,” said Jessica, sounding more bitter than he'd expected. “Fine, well, put it this way. Our fathers fought in the Faith Wars, they put their lives on the fucking line for us against the faith-heads, and if this Neo-Gnostic rubbish really is a new death-dealing faith and not some fanboy wank, and it's part of our fucking community, a community where you, my dear, have a certain standing, then I say it's your civic duty to help the cops smoke it out and
crush
it.”

Jessica's voice was shaking, her finger jabbing. Dave wasn't used to such vehemence from her about anything that wasn't either personal or totally abstract. He wondered if it wasn't something symptomatic, if Jessica wasn't getting on his case, the way girlfriends did. Jessica could play the frivolous gothgirl by night, but by day she was a serious philosophy postgrad, and most days—today being an exception—she was a hard-working one. Dave was uneasily aware that being king of the silent scene wouldn't, in the long run, be enough to impress her, or indeed himself.

“All right,” he said. He kept his gaze locked with Jessica's as he sipped from the mug. “That's me told. Point taken.”

“So you're in? Definitely in?”

“I said I was last night.”

“Not very definitely, and then just now you got cold feet. I need to know.”

“It's for sure,” said Dave.

Jessica grinned, and grasped his hand. “Great! You and me, baby!”

“You and me and the queer cop.”

“Together, we fight crime…” Jessica said dreamily. They both laughed.

The queer cop returned, washed and made-up, with all his gear on except the gloves and bonnet. He sat down, smoothed out his skirt, and reached for the pen and notepad again.

“Right,” he said. “Plot.”

“OK,” said Jessica. She fished her own iThink from its belt pouch. “Let's see how far we got last night, before the sidestream weed kicked in.”

“I gave you eyeball records, you gave me some names,” said Aliyev.

“And then we crossed most of them off…”

Jessica looked down at the iThink, scrolling it with her thumb, making
strange grimaces with her lower lip and upper teeth. “And I did some asking around…in fact I sent out a few queries. Hang on.”

She put her phone clip in and started some more scrolling, through text messages; cocked her head, listening to phone messages.

“Hmm…” she said. She spun the pad towards her, grabbed the pen, and began scribbling.

“These two,” she said. “Carl Powys, Will Latham.” She thumbed again. “That's their pics,” she added, tabbing them to Aliyev's and Dave's contacts.

“These weren't on my list,” said Aliyev. He gazed into space for a minute. “Nothing about them online, apart from the university records and a couple of minimal social pages. No police record, either.”

“Low profile,” said Jessica. “That's how you can tell the real ones from the wannabes. One of my messages was from a wannabe—just a nice little Wiccan who got the brush-off from them a few months ago when she tried telling them all about Gnosticism as a feminist and humanist alternative to patriarchal religion.”

“What did they do?” asked Aliyev.

“Told her to go read a proper fucking book, she says.” Jessica sniggered. “Sound advice for her, in my opinion. She was deeply offended.”

“I recognise them,” said Dave. “They're regulars on the scene.”

“Can we expect them at your gig tonight?” Aliyev asked.

Dave shrugged. “Like I said, they're regulars.”

“Don't want to chance that. Could you tab them a freebie?”

“Sure,” said Dave.

Jessica was shaking her head. “Too obvious. If they're mixed up in something, they'll be suspicious of a ticket or an invite out of the blue. The gig tonight's in the Carthaginian. Everyone comes to that.”

Aliyev looked dubious. “What if these two don't?”

“We'll just have to try something else,” Jessica said. “If they don't, we'll have time for a plan B.”

“OK,” said Aliyev. “Leave a plan B to me. Let's assume they do come. What then?”

“You and me get into casual conversation with them, keep them interested, see if they open up a bit. Dave hangs back and keeps an eye, follows us if we go out.”

“I can't go out before the end of the gig,” said Dave.

“If you have to, you can,” said Jessica. “Have a programme ready to slot in. But we'll do our best to keep them in the club for the whole gig. Shouldn't be difficult. And you can tip off Hardcastle, just in case.”

“And I'll have back-up,” said Aliyev. “Fine. That's it. We have a plan for the night.”

“For the evening,” Jessica said.

Aliyev smiled. “For the evening—that's the one I have to report in with.”

“And we have a plan for the rest of the afternoon,” said Jessica. “Shop.”

“Not me,” said Dave. “I have a gig to prepare and a net to surf for files.”

“Sure you don't want to join us?” Jessica said. “Shopping for a little black dress?”

“Sure. Positive. Have fun.”

“Shame. You showed a lot of promise in that direction last night.”

“You know,” said Dave, “that's probably exactly
why
I don't want to.”

That concession was enough to get his girlfriend and the queer cop off his case and stop winding him up, which was exactly why he'd said it. Not because it was true. If it had been true, he wouldn't have said it at all.

Dave slipped his contacts onto his eyeballs and waited out the day's updates instead of skipping them. When the last of the terms and conditions had faded he poured himself another coffee, propped himself in a battered leather armchair in the corner of the living room, poised his thumb over his clunky last-season-but-still-adequate iThink, and invoked Ogle Space. The gig that night was in the Carthaginian, a big club on George IV Bridge. It was one he didn't get very often and he always tried to give it something new. He'd done enough war-porn and blasphemy-tat recently; time for a different angle, before his audience got bored too. Space was another standby, but like every VJ he'd overused deep-space images: the exoplanet surveys relayed to Ogle Worlds, the more distant objects displayed in Hoyle Sky. This time he was going to go for Near-Earth Space, and compile some eerie dance of the soletas, the satellites and space stations and the space elevators. He tried to get some over-familar chords and movements out of his head. Kubrick's
2001
was in the back of his mind, for sure: every VJ who'd ever combined space imagery with music had at some point referenced or plagiarised that; but he didn't want a fucking ballet, he wanted something with a harder rhythm, heavy and industrial; it was going to be that kind of gig. Building it around the elevators and soletas would give it just the sort of edgy challenge he liked to salt his gigs with. Most people on the scene heartily disdained the whole project of using soletas to combat global warming as a typical hubristic technical fix, a last desperate throw of the industries that burned more carbon than they turned into bucky-tech. There was some truth in that: the Atlantic Space Elevator and the soletas had originally been financed by Gazprom and Exxon to counter class-action lawsuits over climate change.