Strike a Match (Book 1): Serious Crimes (15 page)

She nodded, climbed down, and watched the train disappear. As she walked her bike down the road towards The Acre, she wondered how the sergeant had known where she lived. She supposed he must have looked at her file the previous evening. That was something, she supposed. As was Weaver’s arrival at the crime scene. There was no need to inform anyone as to what Mitchell was up to now. That led her to wonder how Weaver had arrived at the house so quickly, and with so many Marines who knew what Emmitt and Clipton looked like.

Chapter 7

The Mint

19
th
September

“Early again!” Maggie said as Ruth opened the door. “If I knew you were going to finish at this time, I’d have asked you to pick up the— what happened to your face?”

Ruth half raised a hand before she remembered it was covered in blood.

“It’s not mine,” she said. “I… I better wash.”

The woman’s screams woke her. Ruth sat up, listening. The screams were still there, but only inside her head. She wondered whose they were. There was a vague memory of a face, not so much a shape she could see but an echo that she could almost feel. Then it was gone, replaced by that of Hailey Lyons, Charles Anderson, and then of Emmitt, their faces going around and around like some twisted kaleidoscope. She shook her head, trying to clear it.

She was in her room. The world outside her window was dark, though there was a soft, flickering glow coming from around the bottom of the door. She sat up and swung her legs off the bed. She recalled going to wash, and at some point she’d changed, but she couldn’t remember what had happened after that. Had she eaten? Her stomach growled no. She stood and opened the door.

The light was coming from the kitchen. Maggie was sitting in her chair by the fire, a candle in the window, another on the table. Next to it was a teapot and two empty cups.

“You’re awake, then,” she said. “And probably hungry. I’ll make you something.”

“Two cups,” Ruth said. “You had visitors?”

“Sergeant Mitchell came round.”

“He did?” Ruth asked.

“He was worried,” Maggie said. “He told me what happened. I can’t say I’m happy about it. This is not what I thought you’d be doing when you joined the academy. It was meant to be knocking on doors and filling in forms. It was meant to be safe. Not dead bodies, and people being shot in front of you.”

“It is what it is,” Ruth murmured.

“You got that from Mitchell,” Maggie said. “And you’ve not known him long enough to be copying his mannerisms. I don’t suppose there’s any point trying to talk you out of going back?”

Ruth caught the inflection. “I don’t know. I mean, no, there’s no point trying to persuade me. But I don’t know.” She shook her head, trying to turn illusive emotions into coherent thoughts. “I have to go in tomorrow. There’ll be an enquiry, and I’ll have to give a statement. After that, well, maybe the choice won’t be mine.”

Maggie sighed. “It’s today, dear, not tomorrow. Dawn’s not far off.”

“It’s not?” She looked at her watch. It was coming up to half past four.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Maggie said. So Ruth did, finishing at the same time as dawn properly arrived.

“It’s big, isn’t it?” Ruth asked. “I mean, there have to be more people involved.”

“Which means it’s not over. From what you’ve said, it’s barely begun. If you’re going in, then you better leave now. But I’ll say this. Work out why and you might get a better idea of who.”

Which, Ruth reflected as she wheeled her bike down the road and away from the house, wasn’t very helpful advice. She turned her mind to the bigger question of whether she wanted a career in policing. The simple answer was the same one that she’d had since she’d applied: no. She’d gone to the academy because joining the police had seemed like the easiest way of getting out of the city and seeing some of the world. The only reason to stick with it now was the paycheque she’d get in three months’ time. She thought back to the forged twenty-pound note she’d taken and almost regretted not keeping it. Did that mean she wasn’t cut out for policing? Certainly she wasn’t motivated by any grand notions of law and justice. At the same time, she didn’t want to stop, not until they’d caught Emmitt.

When Ruth entered the cabin in the yard of Police House, Mitchell was already there.

“Sleep well?” he asked.

“Some,” she said. “You came to the house last night.”

“I did,” he said. “I wanted to check you were okay. Ours is a violent job, cadet. By its nature we see people at their worst and see the worst they are capable of. You shouldn’t take that as a model for what the world is truly like. Try to find some small act of kindness that you’ve witnessed and make it the last thing you think about before you go to sleep.”

She nodded politely and then took a proper look at the sergeant. He’d changed his uniform, but hadn’t shaved. “Did
you
get any sleep last night?” she asked.

“Some,” he said, echoing her own reply with a trace of a smile. “Riley and I went to the Marquis. The pub by the docks that Turnbull mentioned, you remember?”

“Vaguely,” she said. “I thought she had a concussion.”

“When she gets it into her head to do something, nothing can stop her, which is why I went with her.”

“I could have gone with you, too,” she said.

“To the pub? No, you’re too young. You’d have got too much attention, and of the wrong kind.”

“Oh. Did you learn anything?”

“In a way. A lot of regulars have stopped coming in over the last few months. Possibly they’ve gone away, gone straight, or just stopped going to that pub, but perhaps they were hired like Turnbull was. Riley is following up on some of those.”

“What happened to him?”

“Turnbull? He’s in the cells somewhere. Or he was when I got in a few hours ago.”

“Shall we go and question him?” she asked.

“We’ll have to wait until we’re invited by Weaver,” Mitchell said. “I’ve put in the request, and maybe it’ll be granted. Maybe.”

“Well, should I go and help Riley, then?”

“You wouldn’t find her,” Mitchell said, “and when she’s done she’ll go home to sleep. Besides, I’m afraid you have an appointment with the commissioner.”

“What? Why?”

“Don’t worry. The commissioner is, technically, to whom Serious Crimes reports, and that means he’s the one who takes the official statements. I doubt he’ll actually do it himself. It’ll be a secretary or someone. Tell them the truth though I’d ask that you don’t mention Isaac. If Weaver gets wind of it, she’ll go looking for him, and I’d rather she focused on the job in hand. You fired six shots, remember.”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

The commissioner had an office in what had been the headmaster’s study when the building was a school. Ruth nervously presented herself to the secretary and was shocked when she was ushered into the commissioner’s private study. Commissioner Wallace was a man of average height, grey hair, and a kindly face that was currently peering at a sheaf of papers on the desk in front of him.

“Ah, Deering, please come in. Sit down.”

Ruth looked around. There were two leather armchairs by an unlit fire, and another chair in front of the desk.

“Over there,” the commissioner said, pointing towards the armchairs. “Can I offer you some tea? Or coffee?”

“No, sir. Thank you. Sir,” Ruth stammered.

“If you’re sure? Fine, just give me a moment.” He turned his attention back to the papers on his desk.

As she perched on the edge of the chair, Ruth tried to remain at attention. She’d seen the commissioner before, of course, and most recently at the graduation ceremony, but she’d never spoken to the man. She’d never considered it, let alone dared.

“There, done,” Wallace said. He crossed the room to sit opposite her. “If I’d known there was so much paperwork involved, I would never have taken the job. I thought that it would be all catching villains and foiling plots. Ah, but I was wrong. It seems, however, that is exactly what you have been up to these past few days. Relax, please, you’re not in trouble. No one is. You’ve managed to expose a particularly dangerous plot, but we have formalities to follow. Tell me what happened.”

So, for the second time that morning, and excluding the part about Isaac, Ruth did.

“Excellent,” the commissioner said. “That matches Mitchell’s account closely enough that we can call it the official version of the events. I’ve something for you to sign to that effect.”

He stood, went to his desk, and came back with a piece of paper and a pen. He handed them to her. It was a typed account of the events of the previous day which broadly matched the story she’d just told him. Starting to feel as if she was at least a few hours behind everyone else, she signed her name at the bottom.

“That’s one more piece of paper to be filed away and probably never read,” the commissioner said. “Have you seen the newspaper this morning?”

She shook her head. He took a copy from his desk. On the front page were two sketches, one of Clipton, the other of Emmitt.

“They’re not as good as photographs, but it’s close enough,” he said. “We started running them in the evening edition yesterday. I doubt it will do much beyond keeping the two men away from the train stations, but hope springs eternal.”

Ruth focused on the headline above the pictures.

“It says they’re wanted for murder,” she said.

“We had to tell the newspaper what was really going on, damn free press and all that, but they won’t run the real story. Not yet. You know why?”

She thought back and remembered something Mitchell had said. “It would destroy the currency?” she said.

“Precisely. Or it would destroy all confidence in it, and that would do as much damage as if the notes had been scattered about the countryside, there for anyone to collect. Ours is a fragile economy, cadet, tied to a standard of goodwill and expectation. The last thing we need is people rushing to the shops to convert their currency to canned food and candles and all the other more reliably tradable goods. But would you like to know the great irony in this?”

“Um… yes?”

“If we were to tell the populace that we’d broken up this counterfeiting ring, their response would be to withdraw their savings en masse. Since the Mint doesn’t have enough currency on hand, we would have to use those forged notes to meet demand. I pointed that out to Mr Grammick. He wasn’t amused. No sense of humour, that man.”

Not knowing to whom he was referring, Ruth wasn’t sure if she should agree, so instead she asked, “How much of the counterfeit money is in circulation?”

“Ah, we don’t know. Not yet. They’ve begun sampling the notes that come into the bank, and we should have a better idea over the next few days. But, that isn’t why I wanted to speak to you. Do you know why Mitchell is only a sergeant?”

“No sir,” she said.

“Well, firstly, he wasn’t always a sergeant. He was one of the original police officers before we had ranks and when our only laws were those ancient ones that dictate the difference between good and evil. But a few years ago he went wandering. I don’t know why, or where he went, but he came back. He was made a captain, and then… suffice it to say that he has made some new enemies to add to a long list of old ones. I created the Serious Crimes Unit in the hope that a few years behind a desk might mellow him. I thought he might realise that the world has changed, that policing had changed. We have an academy. We have courts and trials, appeals and paroles. We have ranks and procedures. There is no place for his brand of rough justice. Not any more. I hoped he would realise this was something to be welcomed, but some people can’t change. He is a good detective, I will grant you that, but he is reckless and has no regard for the chain of command. His greatest problem, however, is that I will be leaving soon, as will a number of others who owe him favours. Some are retiring whereas I will be returning to Parliament. The Prime Minister is standing down. I know that every summer there are rumours that she’ll resign by Christmas, but this time it will happen. She’s only waiting until the trade deal with the Americas is signed. When she leaves, I will take her seat in the House. I was a political appointment, here to bring some order to the law, as the law brought order to our nation. When I’m gone, there will be no one left to cover for Mitchell. This isn’t a threat, cadet. It’s a warning that I’ve already given him too many times to count. He won’t change, nor will he change what he’s planning to do. Regardless of what I say, he will continue with his own investigation. You were lucky yesterday, but luck never holds. Keep me informed, and I will keep a platoon of Marines ready to support you the next time he plans anything like the events of yesterday. When he does, come and tell me first. Agreed?”

“Yes, sir,” she said. She didn’t have an alternative.

“Very good. And take a message to Mitchell for me. Mr Grammick of the Mint wishes to see him at ten o’clock this morning. They’re conducting their own investigation and have some questions they’d like answered. It’s a formality, of course, but accountability is the difference between a police force and a street gang. Hmm. Yes…” He walked back to his desk, sat, picked up a pen, and wrote that line down. “Dismissed,” he added, his eyes on the piece of paper.

Ruth saluted and left. She walked stiffly out of the office, past the secretary, along the corridor, and outside. She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to slump with relief or despair, but the courtyard was too busy for her to do either. A trustee, a woman with hair so golden it looked almost white, was collecting leaves from around the drain. A few yards from her, three officers were loading five prisoners into a cart. One of the officers raised a hand in greeting. It was Simon Longfield, another in her class in the academy who’d been stationed in Twynham. In his case, it
had
been because of his parents. They were something important in industry and had ensured he got a relatively safe posting in Police House.